MC-NRLF 


4    IDS    4m 


POSTHUMOUS 

STORY 


H€L€N  JACKSON 


' 

c// / 


Messrs.  ROBERTS  BROTHERS  have  in  prepara 
tion,  and  will  shortly  publish :  — 

I. 

GLIMPSES      OF     THREE     COASTS.       By     HELEN 
JACKSON  (H.  H.). 

These  are  "  Bits  of  Travel "  in  California  and  Oregon,  Scotland 
and  England,  and  Norway,  Denmark,  and  Germany,  partly  new 
and  partly  reprinted  from  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  and  "Century 
Magazine." 

II. 

VERSES.    Second  Series.     By  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.). 

A  collection  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  poems,  including  everything  of 
importance  written  by  her  since  the  publication  of  her  first  volume. 

III. 

BETWEEN    WHILES.     By  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.). 

"  P.  S.  —  Did  anybody  ever  publish  a  volume  of  short  stories 
called  'Between  Whiles'?  If  not,  hide  it  away  and  don't  tell  any 
body,  and  by  next  spring  I  will  have  had  enough  short  stories  printed 
to  make  a  nice  summer  volume.  Is  n't  it  a  lovely  title  ?  "  —  Postscript 
to  a  letter  of  Mrs.  Jackson  to  lier  publisher,  dated  San  Francisco, 
June  26,  1885. 


Z  E  P  H. 


ZEPH. 


A    POSTHUMOUS    STORY. 

BY 

HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.), 

AUTHOR  OF 

RAMONA,"  "A  CENTURY  OF  DISHONOR,"  "  VERSES,"  "BITS  OF  TRAVEL 

"  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME,"    "  BITS  OF    TALK  ABOUT  HOME 

MATTERS,"    "BITS  OF  TALK  FOR  YOUNG  FOLKS,"  "  MERCY 

PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE,"  "  HETTY'S  STRANGE  HISTORY," 

"  NELLY'S  SILVER  MINE,"  "  LETTERS  FROM  A  CAT," 

"  MAMMY  TITTLEBACK  AND  HER  FAMILY," 

"THE  HUNTER  CATS  OF  CONNORLOA." 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1885. 


Copyright,  1885, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


-  6 


Z  EP  H. 


i. 


THE  long  Colorado  twilight  was  over.  But 
it  was  not  yet  quite  lamplight  time  by  the 
clock,  and  Miss  Sophy  Burr  was  sitting  in  a 
brown  study  at  her  kitchen  window.  This  was 
the  time  she  always  took  to  make  a  swift  retro 
spect  in  her  mind  of  the  results,  profitable  or 
otherwise,  of  the  day  just  ended.  She  could 
think  better  in  the  dark,  and  the  small  econ 
omy  of  doing  without  a  lamp  until  the  last 
possible  minute  gave  her  a  distinct  pleasure. 
She  was  the  strangest  mixture  of  generosity 
and  stinginess  ever  poured  into  human  mould, 
her  boarders  said;  and  nobody  knew  better 
than  they,  for  there  was  not  a  boarder  in  the 


ZEPH. 


house  who  had  not  been  with  her  at  least  a 
year:  some  five  and  some  six,  and  one  old 
couple  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  —  had  been  with 
her  ten.  They  were  in  Colorado  for  their 
,";  .- health, -r^-; Mr,  Jones  for  Mrs.  Jones's,  and  vice 
versa,  Mrs.  Jones  •.  for  Mr.  Jones's;  so  they 
always  declared,  a  rare  instance  of  uniformity 
in  conjugal  needs.  They  began  with  Miss 
Sophy  in  the  year  when  she  began,  and  the 
town  began,  —  almost  before  Miss  Sophy  fairly 
began ;  for  all  she  had  in  way  of  a  house  then 
was  a  tent  with  a  sort  of  fly  attachment  for  a 
kitchen,  and  the  boarders  ate  their  meals  in 
Miss  Sophy's  bedroom ;  or,  to  put  it  differently, 
Miss  Sophy  was  obliged,  owing  to  the  scarcity 
of  accommodations  and  the  rush  of  custom,  to 
sleep  temporarily  in  her  dining-room.  That 
sounds  better  than  to  say  that  her  boarders 
dined  in  her  bedroom. 

This   was   ten   years   ago.      But    to    look   at 
Pendar  Basin  to-day,  and  to  recall  what  it  was 


ZEPH. 


then,  one  would  say  it  must  have  been  nearer 
twenty,  so  marvellously  had  the  colony  grown 
and  developed.  It  was  now  what  is  called  a 
"  thriving"  place  of  some  six  thousand  peo 
ple, —  all  active,  all  making  money,  none  rich, 
none  very  poor,  few  of  any  pretence  to  what 
is  called  in  older  places  "social  position,"  but 
all  or  nearly  all  of  fair  intelligence  and  good 
business  education  in  their  respective  callings. 
It  had  the  making  of  a  town  in  it,  —  a 
superb  site,  good  water,  the  command  of  two 
mountain  passes  through  which  must  go  up  and 
out  of  the  Basin  all  the  freight  for  two  large  min 
ing  districts  in  the  west  and  in  the  south.  A 
railroad,  one  of  the  main  Colorado  lines,  brought 
in  the  supplies  to  be  thus  shipped,  and  kept  it, 
moreover,  in  close  relation  with  the  outside  world. 
On  the  whole,  a  very  lucky  little  village  was 
Pendar  Basin ;  and  especially  lucky  were  those 
who  came  in  the  beginning,  in  the  "tent  and 
coyote  "  days,  as  they  were  called,  and  had  seen 


8  ZEPH. 

the  lots  they  bought  then  for  hundreds  of  dol 
lars  boom  up  into  value  rated  by  thousands. 

Miss  Sophy  had  not  ten  dollars  in  the  world 
when  she  began.  Her  story  was  a  sad  one,  but 
its  details  do  not  belong  here.  She  had  come 
out  from  New  England  to  Colorado  to  join  her 
lover;  found  him  dead,  buried  only  the  week 
before  her  arrival,  his  last  words  full  of  anguished 
anxiety  on  her  account,  for  he  had  not  been 
successful,  and  had  nothing  to  leave  her  except 
a  grave  to  be  tended  ;  and  the  first  thing  the  poor 
soul  did,  was  to  spend  a  few  of  her  dollars  in 
building  a  high  fence  around  the  bare  sandy 
mound  which  hid  her  lover  from  her  sight. 
Then  she  hired  a  tent,  put  out  her  sign,  rolled 
up  her  sleeves,  and  went  to  work  to  earn  money 
enough  to  carry  her  home.  But  the  spell  of  the 
wilderness  seized  hold  upon  her,  and  she  never 
went;  and  now  there  was  not  in  all  the  town 
a  better-known,  a  more  universally  respected 
woman  than  Miss  Sophy:  respected  by  the 


ZEPH. 


women  because  of  her  helpful  cheery  nature 
and  exceeding  decorum  of  conduct;  respected 
by  the  men  because  she  had  a  "  level  head  "  and 
"  owned  considerable  property,"  —  surest  pass 
ports  to  favor  in  the  minds  of  business  men. 

As  Miss  Sophy  sat  revolving  in  her  mind  the 
relative  proportions  between  what  she  had  ex 
pended  and  what  she  had  received  on  the  day 
just  closed,  a  frown  deepened  on  her  forehead. 
The  balance  did  not  please  her.  The  margin  of 
profit  which  she  had  prescribed  to  herself  as  a 
uniform  rule  had  been  diminished  by  injudicious 
luxury  added  to  dinner. 

"  T  was  the  jelly,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  That 
was  what  did  it.  But  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
give  roast  mutton  without  it.  Capers  come 
cheaper  and  go  farther.  I'll  boil  oftener." 

At  least  hundreds  of  times  in  the  last  eight 
years  Miss  Sophy  had  come  to  this  or  similar 
resolutions ;  but  they  always  failed  her  when  the 
instant  arrived  for  putting  them  into  practice. 


10  ZEPH. 

Her  love  of  a  good  dinner  herself,  and  her  still 
keener  love  of  the  approbation  she  won  by  set 
ting  it  before  others,  kept  up  perpetual  warfare 
with  her  savingness,  and  being  two  to  one,  often 
came  off  victorious,  —  often  enough  to  keep  up 
her  reputation  for  setting  the  best  table  in  the 
town;  not  often  enough,  however,  to  prevent  her 
making  money  in  the  long  run,  and  coming  out 
at  the  end  of  the  year  with  a  creditable  surplus 
ahead. 

Just  as  Miss  Sophy  had  said,  half  aloud,  the 
last  words  of  her  soliloquy,  she  heard  a  faint 
knock  at  the  door, — an  irresolute,  vacillating  sort 
of  knock,  which  aroused  her  curiosity  at  once. 

"Who  ever's  that,"  she  said,  rising  briskly, 
"  that  don't  know  his  mind — or  his  fingers  ?  "  and 
she  opened  the  door  with  impatient  quickness. 

A  tall  man,  with  a  painful  expression  of  incer 
titude  and  feebleness  in  his  bent  figure,  stood 
before  her  without  speaking. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Sophy,  sharply. 


ZEPH.  1 1 

"  I  see  a  woman  come  in  here  a  little  while 
ago,"  he  stammered,  "  'bout  half  an  hour  back." 

"  Well,  supposin'  you  did  !  "  interrupted  Miss 
Sophy,  still  more  sharply. 

The  man  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers,  with  the 
look  of  a  hunted  animal.  "  Beg  your  pardon, 
ma'am,  I  did  n't  mean  to  'fend  ye;  I  thought 
mebbe  't  was  my  wife,  'n'  I  'd  like  to  speak  to 
hen" 

"  Your  wife !  "  cried  Miss  Sophy,  eying  him 
keenly,  —  she  began  to  suspect  him  of  being 
either  a  tramp  or  a  lunatic,  — "  your  wife ! 
There  has  n't  any  woman  come  in  here  but  me ; 
'twas  me  came  int'  the  gate  just  now.  What 
'd  you  think  your  wife  was  wantin'  in  here?" 

The  man  hung  his  head.  A  strange  hesitancy 
seemed  to  hold  back  his  every  word. 

"  She  said  she  was  goin'  out  to  look  for  work," 
he  said  slowly,  "  an'  I  thought  't  was  her  I  see 
turnin'  in  here.  Beg  yor  pardon,  ma'am.  Sorry 
I  troubled  ye." 


12  ZEPH. 


"  Tain't  any  great  trouble  answerin*  a  ques 
tion,"  replied  Miss  Sophy,  her  heart  warming  at 
once  at  the  symptoms  of  suffering.  "  What  sort 
of  work  did  she  want?  What  do  you  do?  Do 
you  want  work?" 

"  I  'm  a  carpenter,"  answered  the  man,  still 
speaking  slowly,  and  with  almost  a  stumbling 
vagueness ;  "  't  least  that 's  my  trade ;  I  hain't 
got  any  tools  now,  though ;  I  Ve  been  teamin' 
since  I  Ve  been  here." 

"Do  you  want  work?"  asked  Miss  Sophy 
again,  curtly. 

No  reply  from  the  man.  He  seemed  lost 
in  thought,  his  eyes  resting  on  Miss  Sophy's 
face  almost  like  the  unseeing  eyes  of  a  sleep 
walker. 

"  Man  alive  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Sophy.  "  I  'm 
askin'  you  if  you  want  work !  I  can  get  you 
somethin'  to  do." 

Still  in  the  same  curiously  irresolute,  hesitant 
voice  the  man  answered :  "  No,  I  donno  's  as 


ZEPH.  13 

I  do ;  that  is,  I  donno  's  I  '11  be  here ;  if  I  was 
here,  I  'd  be  glad  o'  work." 

Miss  Sophy's  patience  evaporated.  "Well, 
you  are  here,  's  near  's  I  can  judge;  but  you 
don't  seem  to  me  to  want  work  so  much  's  some 
men  I  Ve  met.  I  don't  know  how  you  expect 
to  get  along  in  this  world  without  workin' ! " 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  man.  "  'Tain't  that  I  ain't 
willin'  to  work.  Ye  hain't  seen  anything  o* 
my  wife,  have  ye?"  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
desperate  energy  strangely  unlike  his  manner 
hitherto.  "  She 's  somethin'  your  build,  an' 
about  your  height ;  that  was  the  reason  I  took 
you  for  her  jest  now;  hain't  no  sech  woman 
been  here  to-day?  I  Ve  looked  'most  every 
where  else  I  could  think  of  she  'd  be  likely  to 
go.  Hain't  she  stopped  here?" 

"  Stark  crazy,  evidently,"  thought  Miss  Sophy, 
as  she  answered :  "  No,  she  has  n't  been  here. 
No  woman  has  been  into  this  door  to-day  but 
me.  Tell  me  where  you  live,  and  if  your  wife 


14  ZEPH. 

does  call  here  I  '11  tell  her  you  want  to  see 
her." 

He  started  apprehensively.  "  Oh,  no,  ma'am," 
he  said,  "  don't  you  say  nothin'  to  her  about  it. 
She  does  n't  like  it  to  have  me  goin'  round  fol- 
lowin'  her  up.  But  I  thought  if  she  was  in 
the  house  I  'd  like  to  get  a  word  with  her.  My 
name's  Riker,  ma'am,  —  Zeph  Riker.  We  live 
down  in  the  Flat ;  ye  can't  miss  it.  If  I  'm  here 
I  'd  be  glad  to  do  teamin' ;  or,  if  it  was  n't  for 
not  havin'  tools,  carpenterin'  's  my  trade.  Good 
night,  ma'am,"  and  turning  with  a  swift  move 
ment  quite  out  of  keeping  with  his  shambling, 
inert  attitude,  he  was  gone. 

Miss  Sophy  stood  gazing  out  into  the  dark 
ness  after  him  for  some  seconds  before  she 
recovered  from  her  bewilderment. 

"  Well,  if  that  don't  beat  all  the  cur'us  things 
that 's  ever  come  to  my  door  yet !  "  she  mentally 
ejaculated  as  she  walked  slowly  through  the 
kitchen  into  the  dining-room  and  began  setting 


ZEPH.  15 

her  supper-table.  "  I  guess  he 's  crazy,  poor 
thing  !  An'  yet,  he  did  n't  seem  somehow  exactly 
like  crazy  neither.  Perhaps  some  o'  the  folks  '11 
know  him.  It 's  borne  in  on  me  that  that  man 
wants  lookin'  after." 

None  of  the  "  folks,"  that  is,  Miss  Sophy's 
boarders,  had  ever  heard  of  Zeph  Riker.  As 
she  told  them  the  tale  of  her  interview  they 
all  with  one  accord  began  to  warn  her  against 
letting  her  sympathies  go  out  towards  him. 
He  was  a  tramp ;  he  was  a  burglar ;  he  was  a 
madman.  One  after  another  the  boarders  con 
fidently  advanced  their  theories  of  explanation 
of  his  singular  behavior.  It  was  odd  to  see, 
but  a  student  of  psychological  phenomena 
could  have  classified  the  fact,  how,  as  the  con 
versation  went  on,  Miss  Sophy  instinctively 
took  the  attitude  of  Zeph's  defender. 

"  I  don't  b'leeve  he  's  one  o'  them  things," 
she  said.  "I. ain't  goin'  to  say  it  for  sure, 
but  I  b'leeve  he's  jest  kind  o'  dumb  with 


1 6  ZEPH. 


trouble.  I  think  that 's  all 't  ails  him,  —  some 
dreadful  kind  o'  trouble;  V  I  think  he  ought 
to  be  looked  after.  It 's  been  growin'  on  me,  the 
more  I've  thought  on't,  that  'twas  trouble  he 
was  in.  Trouble  makes  folks  that  way  some 
times, —  makes  the  words  kind  o'  stick,  an'  your 
head  seem  to  be  all  of  a  kind  of  a  buzz,  so 
you  don't  know  anythin'.  I  think  somebody 
ought  to  look  after  him." 

Whenever  it  became  clear  to  Miss  Sophy 
that  a  thing  or  a  person  wanted  "  looking  af 
ter,"  the  next  logical  step  in  her  mind  was 
the  conclusion  that  she  herself  was  the  person 
whose  duty  lay  in  the  line  of  that  precise  "  look 
ing  after."  "And  especially  after  the  trouble 
I've  seen  myself,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  as  she 
took  her  energetic  way  the  next  afternoon 
towards  "The  Flat,"  — a  part  of  the  town  in 
which,  strangely  enough,  she  had  never  be 
fore  been.  Miss  Sophy  was  not  a  walker; 
that  is,  not  an  outdoor  walker.  The  number  of 


ZEPH.  17 

miles  her  tireless  feet  walked  each  day  in  her 
house  it  would  have  greatly  surprised  her  to  be 
told.  She  always  said  it  tired  her  to  death  to 
walk,  she  was  too  stout;  and  when  her  "  folks" 
sometimes  observed,  "Why,  Miss  Sophy,  you  are 
always  walking,  you  never  sit  down,"  she  would 
reply,  "  Oh,  but  I  don't  call  it  walkin',  just 
runnin'  round  the  house."  And  she  honestly 
thought  so;  and  felt  over- fatigued  by  a  half- 
hour's  walk  out  of  doors,  when  she  would  be 
fresh  as  a  lark  at  the  end  of  eight  or  nine 
hours'  steady  trot  on  her  own  floors. 

It  was  a  warm  day,  and  the  perspiration 
stood  in  drops  on  Miss  Sophy's  face  when  she 
finally  found  herself  in  the  centre  of  the  low, 
thinly  settled  district  known  as  the  Flat.  Look 
ing  around  her  with  mingled  disgust  and  com 
passion,  she  indulged  in  the  strongest  ejaculation 
ever  permitted  to  pass  her  lips. 

"  Land  o'  the  livin' !  What  a  hole !  Poor 
creaturs !  I  don't  suppose  this  land  costs 


1 8  ZEPH. 


anythin',  an'  that's  what  brought  'em  all  in 
here.  'Tain't  any  more  nor  less  than  a  kind  o' 
cellar!  A  nice  time  scarlet  fever 'd  have  if  it 
was  to  get  in  amongst  these  shanties.  It's  a 
shame !  I  never  knew  there  was  such  a  place 
's  this  in  this  town.  Well,  one  half  the  world 
does  n't  know  how  the  other  half  lives,  is  jest 
as  true  in  small  places  as  in  big,  I  vow !  I 
don't  know  what  the  man  meant  by  sayin' 
I  could  n't  miss  it.  As  if  there  was  n't  but 
one  house  in  the  Flat,  and  that  his'n ! "  and 
Miss  Sophy  stood  looking  right  and  left  in 
blank  perplexity.  The  dogs  and  the  children 
of  the  Flat  soon  gathered  around  her  in  won 
der  at  her  appearance,  and  from  one  of  the 
oldest  and  least  terrified  of  the  children  she 
learned  which  of  the  shanties  was  "  Zeph's." 

It  was  a  poor  little  place,  unfenced,  un- 
cared  for,  the  house  unpainted  and  dilapi 
dated  ;  and  in  strange  mockery,  it  seemed, 
of  the  probable  needs  of  the  occupants  of 


ZEPH.  19 

such  a  house,  a  trim  new  tying-post  stood  in 
front  of  the  door.  Looming  up  gauntly  at  its 
side  was  the  half-done  frame  of  a  two-story 
house,  evidently  long  since  abandoned  to  wind 
and  weather;  for  the  beams  were  gray  from 
exposure,  and  weeds  grew  high  where  floors 
should  have  been. 

"  Should  n't  wonder  a  mite  if  that  was  his'n," 
thought  Miss  Sophy.  "  He  looked  just  the 
kind  o'  man  to  leave  off  that  way.  He  wants 
spurrin'  up."  And  there  was  an  unconsciously 
authoritative  quality  in  the  very  knock  Miss 
Sophy  gave  at  Zeph's  door. 

No  answer.  Again  she  knocked,  still  more 
sharply.  No  sound  of  any  one  stirring  in  the 
house.  Impatiently  Miss  Sophy  stepped  to  the 
window  —  there  was  but  one  —  and  looked  in. 
An  ejaculation  of  dismay  escaped  her. 

"  Of  all  the  pigsties,  for  such  a  decent  man 
as  he  looked,  to  be  livin'  in !  "  she  said.  It  was 
indeed  an  unsightly  place,  —  a  bare  floor,  long 


20  ZEPH. 


unswept ;  a  rusty  cooking-stove  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  ashes  and  brands  piled  on  the  hearth 
in  front ;  a  battered  table ;  wooden  chairs ;  a  few 
utensils  and  dishes  on  cupboard  shelves  in  one 
corner;  through-  a  half-open  door  into  an  adjoin 
ing  room  were  to  be  seen  untidy  beds,  and  a 
bureau,  with  drawers  wide  open,  looking  as  if 
they  had  just  been  ransacked  by  thieves ;  on  a 
small  stand  at  the  head  of  the  bed  was  a  brass 
candlestick  in  which  the  candle  had  burned  down 
to  the  socket,  leaving  grimy  strata  of  melted 
tallow  and  blackened  wick  piled  around  it. 

Miss  Sophy's  New  England  soul  revolted. 

"  I  donno  's  there 's  any  use  try  in'  to  help 
anybody  that'd  have  a  house  like  this,"  she 
thought,  and  stepped  back  from  the  window, 
again  looking  around  her  in  a  half-compassionate, 
half-resentful  study  of  the  region.  As  she  did 
so  she  perceived  a  strange  head  peering  over 
a  high  board  fence  just  beyond  the  unfinished 
frame  building.  It  was  an  old  woman.  Her 


ZEPH.  21 

thin  gray  hair,  streaked  with  yellow,  drawn  up 
in  a  tight  knot  on  the  top  of  her  head,  was 
surmounted  again  by  a  pair  of  huge  iron- 
rimmed  spectacles  of  a  kind  out  of  vogue  for 
fifty  years.  Her  hair  looked  twenty  years  older 
than  her  face,  and  her  face,  again,  twenty  years 
older  than  her  eyes,  which  were  bright  hazel, 
clear  and  keen,  making  the  spectacles  seem  a 
grotesque  adornment  rather  than  a  necessary 
aid  to  vision.  The  old  woman  had  been  watch 
ing  Miss  Sophy's  every  movement,  and  as  she 
saw  her  turn  away  from  the  window,  called  out, 
"Ain't  nobody  in  thar,  be  ther?" 
"No,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  "no  one." 
"  I  allowed  he  hed  n't  come  hum,"  said  the 
woman.  "  I  seed  thar  warn't  no  smoke  out'er'n 
ther  chimbly,  V  I  said  ter  Vilm,  sez  I,  '  I  jest 
allow  thet  thar  Zeph  's  been  walkin'  ther  streets 
all  night,  I  allow  he  hez  ! ' " 

Miss  Sophy  walked  briskly  towards  the  fence. 
As  she  did  so,  the  head  disappeared  from  view, 


22  ZEPH. 

and  simultaneously  from  behind  the  boards 
came  the  hospitable  invitation,  "  Ef  yeow  '11 
step  raound  ter  the  front  a  piece,  I  '11  let  yer  in ; 
this  gate's  done  nailed  up,  kase  ther  young 
uns's  allers  lettin'  ther  pig  aout." 

"  I  never!"  thought  Miss  Sophy.  "What 
next,  I  wonder !  "  But  she  complied  with  the 
directions,  and  reaching  the  other  side  of  the 
house  found  herself  confronted  by  her  strange 
interlocutor,  who  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  ther  yer  be  ! 
I  allowed  yer  wan't  comin',  mebbe !  It  took  yer 
ser  long,  I  allowed  yer  'd  gone  off.  Yer  wuz 
lookin'  for  Zeph  Riker,  wuz  n't  yer?  Did  yer 
want  him  ter  work  fur  yer?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  dazed  Miss  Sophy,  who 
had  never  before  heard  the  Missouri  vernacular, 
and  had  never  before  seen  so  strange  a  figure  as 
the  one  which  now  stood  before  her. 

"  Wall,  thet  's  jest  what  I  wuz  a  hopin'  up 
when  I  seed  yer  gwine  ter  ther  door.  I  allowed 
to  myself  thet  Zeph  wuz  gwine  ter  git  helped ; 


ZEPH.  23 


he  's  clar  down,  Zeph  is,  'n'  I  allow  he  '11  jest  git 
ter  be  outer'n  his  wits  ef  he  keeps  on  ther  way 
he's  ben  goin',  er  walkin',  walkin',  night-times 
'n'  daytimes ;  they  's  all  one  ter  him,  he  sez,  an' 
she  ain't  wuth  it,  'n'  never  wuz.  Thar 's  lots  kin 
tell  him  thet ;  but  he  won't  listen  to  nary  word 
agen  her,  nary.  Vilm,  he  'lows  he's  crazy, 
naow;  but  I  don't.  He's  got's  wits,  Zeph 
hez ;  an'  there  wan't  never  no  better  man  cum 
inter  this  yer  flairt,  never.  I  allow  ter  you 
ther  warn't.  He  's  reel  good,  Zeph  is.  I  ain't 
gwine  ter  say  but  what  ther 's  men  thet 's  rustled 
more  'n  he  did ;  but  't  ain't  in  some  men  to 
rustle ;  thar  's  some  that  ken,  an'  thar  's  some 
that  can't;  an'  thar  can't  nobody  rustle  when 
ther  heart's  took  outer  'em;  'n'  thet 's  what's 
ther  matter  with  Zeph ;  he 's  got  the  heart  gone 
plumb  outer  him ;  he  's  been  settin'  thar  'n  thet 
house  sence  she's  went  off  this  last  time,  'n'  I 
allow  he'd  ha'  starved  ter  death  ef  I  hedn't 
tuk  him  over  vittles.  We  're  pore,  but  we  ain't 


24  ZEPH. 

gwine  ter  see  a  human  critter  starve,  not  right 
next  dore,  we  ain't.  I  seed  him  when  he  went 
off  yesterday  mornin'.  I  was  jest  cummin'  crost 
ther  floor,  an'  I  seed  him  kinder  stealin'  by. 
He  know'd  I  'd  ask  him  whar  he  wuz  gwine. 
An'  sez  I,  'Zeph  Riker,  air  yer  goin'  huntin' 
thet  woman  agen?  I  allow  yer  the  biggest  fool 
in  all  this  yer  flairt,  Zeph  Riker.'  Thet 's  what 
I  said.  I  hain't  no  patience  with  a  man  that'll 
git  down  'n'  be  run  over  wuss  'n  ary  dog.  An' 
he  jest  give  me  sech  er  look,  an'  he  sez,  '  She  's 
my  wife,  Gammer !  an',  more  'n  somever,  she 's 
took  the  chillen  along  this  time.'  '  She  hain't ! ' 
sez  I.  'Yes,  she  hez,'  sez  he.  Wall,  when  I 
heered  she  'd  got  the  chillen,  I  hed  n't  no  more 
ter  say.  He  'd  got  ter  go  hunt  'em,  'n'  git  'em 
away  ef  he  ennywise  could;  fur  't's  a  dumb 
shame  fur  little  chillen  to  be  with  a  —  sech  a 
critter 's  she  is  !  "  And  Gammer  Stein  stopped 
at  last,  not  for  lack  of  words,  but  of  breath. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talkin'  about," 


ZEPH.  25 


was  Miss  Sophy's  sole  reply  to  this  outpouring 
of  mingled  invective  and  sympathy. 

"  Don't  know  what  I  'm  talkin'  abaout !  " 
cried  the  old  woman,  wrathfully.  "  Hain't  you 
heered  haow  Zeph  Riker's  wife's  allers  gwine 
off  V  leavin'  him?  Sometimes  't  is  one  thing, 
'n'  sometimes  'tis  another;  she's  allers  got  an 
excuse  ready;  most  gen'ully  it's  lookin'  fur 
work,  she  sez ;  she  lets  on  she  's  got  ter  support 
the  family,  'n'  she  's  allers  a  scandalizin'  him  up 
'n'  down;  she  'lows  he  don't  yern  nothin',  'n' 
she  sez  ef  one  don't  bring  in,  the  other  must ; 
'n'  so  she  goes  off  ter  work  down  'n  the  restau 
rants,  fust  one,  'n'  then  another,  but 's  allers  'n 
the  one  whar  that  skunk  o'  a  feller  she  's  goin' 
with,  thet  Nat  Leeson,  's  a  cookin'.  Thet's  the 
kind  o'  work  she 's  a  doin' !  I  allow  she  'd 
oughter  be  took  up;  she'd  oughter;  sech 
women  's  a  disgrace  to  thar  sex,  they  air  now. 
Hain't  yeow  heered  nothin'  abaout  it?  I  allow 
yeow  must  be  a  stranger  hyar,  ef  yeow  hain't 


26  ZEPH. 

heered  o'  Rusha  Riker.  She's  jest  famed,  ill 
famed,  too,  in  this  hyar  town.  I  allowed  thar 
warn't  nobody  thet  hed  n't  heered  o'  her  scan- 
daliginous  carak'ter !  " 

This  last  adjective  was  too  much  for  Miss 
Sophy's  risibles.  In  spite  of  herself  she 
laughed;  at  which  Gammer  Stein  broke  out 
again:  "I  allow  'tain't  no  larfin'  marter;  it's  jest 
life  'n'  death,  thet 's  what  't  is,  to  this  hyar  man 
'n'  his  chillen,  'n'  ef  thar  ain't  murder  in 't  afore 
all 's  said  'n'  done,  I  allow  we  kin  be  thankful  f 
ther  A'mighty.  What  wuz  ye  wantin'  o'  Zeph, 
ef  so  be  's  ye  never  heered  o'  him  afore?  "  And 
pulling  down  her  spectacles,  and  adjusting  them 
perilously  near  the  end  of  her  nose,  Gammer 
Stein  looked  scrutinizingly  across  their  iron 
rims  at  her  visitor.  "  I  don't  know  ye,"  she  said 
distrustfully.  "What  mought  yer  name  be? 
Be  ye  new  cum?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Miss  Sophy.  "  I  have  lived 
here  ever  since  the  town  was  begun;  but  I 


ZEPH.  27 


live  a  mile  away  from  here,  and  I  have  never 
happened  to  hear  of  Zeph  till  yesterday,  when 
he  came  to  my  house  lookin'  for  his  wife.  I 
thought  he  was  in  some  sort  of  trouble,  an'  I  'd 
look  after  him  a  little." 

"  Jes  so,  jes  so,"  said  Gammer,  instantly  ap 
peased  by  the  presence  of  sympathy.  "  Yer 
live  on  ther  hill,  I  allow?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Land  's  drefful  dear  up  thar,"  replied  Gam 
mer,  "  or  else  me  'n'  Vilm,  we  'd  been  up  thar 
tew,  yeow  bet !  I  did  n't  never  like  hollers ; 
but  pore  folks 's  got  ter  live  whar  they  kin. 
Back  'n  Missouri  we  wuz  up  on  a  ridge  like, 
but  't  warn't  ser  healthy 's  this,  fur  all  't  wuz 
higher;  'n'  Vilm 's  allers  tellin'  me  thet  this 
hyar  flairt  ain't  reelly  a  holler.  Thar  can't  be 
no  hollers,  he  sez,  when  ther  hull  country's 
ez  high  up  ez  this  is;  but  I  tell  him  I  don't 
want  ter  live  'n  enny  place  thet  ser  much  's 
favors  ther  look  V  er  holler,  'n'  's  soon  's  we 


28  ZEPH. 

git  er  little  erhead  we  's  got  ter  move  outer'n 
this  flairt.  What  part  o'  ther  hill  der  yeovv  live 
on?  Be  yeow  a  married  woman?" 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Sophy,  curtly,  with  some 
thing  in  her  tone  which  the  sensitive  old 
woman  felt  without  fully  recognizing,  and  in 
stinctively  wished  she  had  not  asked  the  ques 
tion.  "  I  have  never  been  married.  I  live 
alone.  I  keep  the  boarding-house  next  to  the 
Presbyterian  church." 

"  Dew  yer?"  exclaimed  Gammer.  "  Naow 
I  allow  thet's  kind  o'  cur'us.  Vilm,  he's  done 
teamin'  ter  yeour  place ;  he 's  tolt  me  abaout 
yeow.  Don't  yer  want  er  man  steady  ter  dew 
yer  outside  work?  Ef  ye  'd  take  Zeph  in,  he  's 
handy;  he's  a  fust-rate  carpenter  tew,  V  a  good 
hand  fur  hosses ;  ef  he  'd  jest  git  hisself  inter  some 
sech  place,  thar's  plenty 'd  take  keer  o'  the  chil- 
len  for  jest  their  keep,  'n'  thay  're  li'le,  't  would 
n't  be  much,  'n'  let  thet  hussy  o'  his'n  go 
whar  she  belongs;  'n'  I  allow  thar  ain't  much 


ZEPH.  29 


doubtin'  whar  't  'd  be.  Ef  he  cud  wunst  git  shet 
V  her  wunst  fur  all,  thar'd  be  some  hope  o' 
Zeph  yit.  He  wuz  a  reel  likely  man  when  they 
fust  moved  in  hyar  three  years  ago.  She 
wan't  what  she  oughter  be,  neow  I  don't 
s'pose ;  but  she  had  n't  gin  herself  clean  away 
t'  the  devil  then  's  she  hez  sence.  I  allow  it 's 
strange  yer  hain't  never  heered  o'  her.  Why, 
she 's  been  up  inter  the  jail,  'n'  her  name  'n 
the  paper,  'n  the  'Times,'  'n'  the  trial,  'n'  all. 
Jerushy  Riker  'disorderly'  they  called  it;  'n' 
Zeph  he  paid  the  fine,  'n'  all  the  costs,  'n'  got 
her  hum ;  'n'  I  allow  ter  yeow  't  wan't  more  'n 
a  week  'fore  she  wuz  aout  agen,  'n'  feathers  'n 
her  bunnit,  'n'  goin'  to  dances  wi'  thet  Nat,  's 
brazhen  's  any  brass  ye  ever  seen.  'N'  there 
was  n't  erry  woman  'n  this  flairt  'ud  ser  much 
's  speak  ter  her,  only  ther  men.  I  allow  men 
is  shameful ;  'n'  's  long  's  they  '11  go  with  her 
'n'  give  her  things,  she  just  spites  the  women. 
My  man  won't  hev  nothin'  ter  say  ter  her;  he 


30  ZEPH. 

sez  he'd  kill  her  ef  she  wuz  his'n,  'n'  I  sh'd 
hope  he  would.  But  thet  ther  Zeph,  he  jest 
worships  her,  's  ef  she  wuz  the  best  wife  a  man 
ever  bed.  He'll  foller  her,  'n'  coax  her,  'n' 
hang  round  her,  'n'  give  her  his  last  cent  he  's 
got  in  this  blessed  yarth,  ef  she'll  only  look 
wunst  torerds  him." 

"  He 's  a  fool !  "  broke  in  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Wall,  yis,  I  allow  he  is,"  said  Gammer,  re 
flectively.  "  I  allow  he  must  be ;  an'  yit  he 
ain't,  nuther.  Zeph  ain't  no  fool.  Ef  a  man 
gits  took  thet  way  'bout  a  woman,  he  can't 
holp  hisself,  'thout  he  kin  git  shet  V  her  outern 
out.  Thet 's  what  I  'm  tellin'  him  allers.  I  sez 
to  him  jest  this  last  week,  sez  I,  '  Zeph  Riker, 
yeow  jest  light  aout  er  hyar;  yeow  take  yer 
team,'  —  he  's  got  a  fust-rate  team  ef  he  hain't 
sold  'em  since  last  week  to  git  money  'n'  go 
hunt  fur  thet  hussy,  —  'yeow  take  yeour  team 
'n'  ther  young  uns,  'n'  light  aout;  'n'  yeow  keep 
er  travellin'  till  yer  Ve  got  whar  yer  can't  never 


ZEPH.  31 


hear  name  of  her  agin.  Yeow  kin  stop  when 
your  money's  giv  aout,  'n'  work  till  yer  git 
more  ter  go  on  with;  'n'  yeowjest  keep  movin'. 
I  allow  Californy'd  be  fur  enough;  'n'  livin' 
's  easy  made  thar,  everybody  sez  thet  's  ben 
thar;  yeow  jest  light  aout  er  hyar.'" 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Miss  Sophy, 
breathlessly. 

"  He  did  n't  say  but  jest  tew  words,  he  did  n't," 
replied  Gammer.  "  But  them  tew,  'n'  the  way 
he  sed  'em,  wuz  more  'n  some  folks's  preachin' 
all  day.  He  sez,  sez  he,  '  Gammer,  I  can't ; '  'n' 
I  allow  to  yeow  I  'spect  thet 's  jest  the  trew 
on  't ;  'n'  ef  he  can't,  he  can't." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  think  he 
loves  the  woman  still !  "  cried  Miss  Sophy. 

"  But  he  doos,"  said  Gammer.  "  Thet 's  why 
Vilm  sez  he's  a  fool,  'n'  I  can't  gainsay  't  he 
ain't ;  'n'  yit  thar 's  times,  I  allow  to  yeow,  when 
I  git  ter  feelin'  's  ef  he  wuz  better  'n  most  folks. 
He  don't  never  give  her  a  hash  word ;  he 's 


32  ZEPH. 


allers  's  glad  ter  see  her  's  aour  pup  hyar  ter  see 
the  chillen  cumin'  hum  when  school's  aout;  'n' 
he'll  slave  hisself  ter  death,  'n'  sell  the  coat 
ofTen  his  back,  ter  git  her  all  she  wants ;  'n'  she 
don't  give  him  ser  much  's  a  word  er  a  look,  let 
alone  disgracin'  him  'n'  his  chillen  'n'  the  name 
he  's  gin  her !  I  donno  's  the  Lord  's  gwine  ter 
call  him  a  fool  er  not.  It  kind  o'  cums  over  me 
cur'us  sometimes,  ther  way  he  acts."  And  the 
old  woman  gazed  half-inquiringly,  half-shame- 
facedly,  into  Miss  Sophy's  face. 

Miss  Sophy's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She 
tried  to  keep  them  back,  but  they  were  too  big 
to  be  concealed,  —  genuine,  unmistakable  tears. 
Brushing  them  away  impatiently,  she  said, 
"Well,  he's  a  fool,  anyhow!" 

"I  s'pose  he  must  be,"  replied  Gammer. 
"Thar  ain't  many  like  him." 

"  I  wonder  where  he  is  now,"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  No  knowin',"  said  Gammer.  "  It 's  two  days 
naow  he's  ben  huntin'  her.  He  won't  go  in 


ZEPH.  33 


bold  like  'n'  ask  ef  she's  thar  't  these  places, 
kase  it  mads  her.  He'll  jest  hang  raound  'n' 
watch.  He  sez  he  won't  mortify  her !  Him 
mortify  her !  Thet  sounds  likely,  don't  it  ? 
He  sed  thet  ter  me  wunst,  when  I  sed  ter 
him,  sez  I,  'Zeph  Riker,  ef  yer  want  her  ser 
bad  's  yer  say,  take  er  perliceman  'n'  go  git  her. 
She 's  yer  wife.  The  law  guvs  her  ter  ye  where 
somever  yer  kin  ketch  her.'  '  I  would  n't  mor 
tify  her  thet  way,'  sez  he ;  'n'  then  I  jest  up  'n'  I 
sez  ter  him  —  wall,  I  pollergized  ter  him  arter 
fur  the  words  I  used ;  they  wuz  outrageous,  'n' 
ther  would  n't  nobody  but  a  fool  ha'  stood  'em, 
Vilm  sed ;  but  somehow,  I  allow  ter  yeow,  I  Ve 
allers  liked  him  better  sence  thet  day.  Sez  he, 
'  I  don't  feel  ter  blame  yer,  not  fur  nothin*  yer 
say.  Thar  can't  nobody  understand,  but  I  can't 
holp  myself.'" 

Strange    emotions    were    tugging    at    Miss 
Sophy's   heart-strings.      What    had    this    poor 
man's    experiences    in    common    with    hers  ? 
3 


34  ZEPH. 


Nothing,  surely.  The  lover  she  had  lost  had 
been  an  upright  man.  Her  affection  had  never 
been  put  to  the  strain  of  wrestling  with  even  so 
much  as  a  suspicion  of  the  unworthiness  of  its 
object.  And  if  such  evil  destiny  as  that  had 
ever  befallen  her,  she  would  have  seemed  to  be 
the  last  person,  —  she  with  her  practical  com 
mon  sense,  clear  business  head,  matter-of-fact 
way  of  looking  at  life, — the  last  person,  surely, 
to  have  clung  to  a  base  and  dishonored  man. 
And  yet  this  pathetic  story  she  was  hearing  of 
Zeph  Riker's  inalienable  affection  for  the  mis 
erable  creature  he  called  wife  seemed  to  be 
breaking  up  within  her  bosom  the  very  founda 
tions  of  some  strange,  undreamed-of,  mighty 
emotion  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  her. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me," 
thought  Miss  Sophy.  "It  must  be  the  long 
walk.  It  always  does  upset  me  to  walk." 

"  I  must  be  going  now,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  I  wish  you  'd  let 


ZEPH.  35 


me  know  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  to  help 
this  poor  man.  If  he  wants  work  I  can  give 
him  a  good  deal."  And  she  turned  abruptly 
away,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  Gammer 
Stein,  who  had  not  said  half  her  say. 

"Ye '11  call  raound  agen,  won't  ye?"  she 
called  after  her.  "  Dew.  I  'd  like  ter  see  yer 
fust-rate." 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  "some 
day.  But  I  'm  very  busy.  You  must  come  and 
see  me." 

This  pleased  Gammer  even  better. 

"  I  allow  I  will,"  she  said  eagerly.  "  I  'd  like 
ter  see  yer  place.  I  wuz  by  thar.  It 's  an  awful 
nice  house  yer  got." 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  already 
some  paces  away,  and  quickening  her  steps  to 
avoid  further  talk.  She  walked  unconsciously 
faster  and  faster  till  she  reached  home.  Not 
for  ten  years  had  Miss  Sophy's  spinster  breast 
been  the  seat  of  such  keen  and  conflicting 


36  ZEPH. 

emotion.  She  could  neither  analyze  it  nor  shake 
it  off.  The  image  of  her  long-buried  lover  rose 
up  before  her  with  almost  terrifying  vividness, 
and  she  seemed  compelled  by  some  strange 
power  outside  of  herself  to  continue  thinking 
of  him,  fancying  what  would  have  been  the 
result  had  their  marriage  taken  place  and  he 
afterward  proved  as  unfit  for  trust,  unworthy 
of  love,  as  Zeph's  wife.  She  felt  herself  disloyal 
at  the  very  thought,  but  she  could  not  free  her 
self  from  it. 

"  What  nonsense ! "  she  said  to  herself,  sternly. 
"  There  was  n't  a  bad  drop  of  blood  in  Robert 
Barrett's  veins,  not  one;  not  a  man  in  that 
family  ever  went  to  the  bad." 

"  But  what  if  he  had?  "  persisted  this  strangely 
disquieted  spirit  in  her  breast.  "What  if  he 
had?  What  if  he  had  been  overpowered  by 
temptation?  He  was  human.  Men  seemingly 
as  good  as  he  have  fallen ;  have  become  drunk 
ards;  have  been  unfaithful  to  their  wives. 


ZEPH.  37 

What  if  he  had?  What  would  you  have  done? 
Would  n't  you  have  clung  to  him  through  every 
thing?  Do  you  suppose  you  could  ever  have 
left  off  loving  him,  no  matter  what  he  had 
done?" 

"  No,  I  know  I  could  n't,"  responded  Miss 
Sophy's  passionate  heart,  also  strangely  dis 
quieted  in  her  breast;  "I  know  I  couldn't!" 

And  then  by  a  not  unnatural  sequence  there 
came  into  her  thoughts  the  solemn  words  of  the 
marriage  service,  which  she  could  never  hear 
without  a  strange  pang,  remembering  that  she 
had  once  expected  to  hear  them  spoken  for 
herself.  "  '  For  better,  for  worse ;  till  death  do 
us  part.'  What  does  that  mean,"  she  said,  "  if 
it  does  not  mean  just  what  this  poor  Zeph 
is  doing?  'For  better,  for  worse,'  no  matter 
how  much  worse !  I  do  believe  I  should  have 
looked  at  it  just  as  he  does,  this  very  minute ! 
I  would  n't  wonder  if  I  'd  ha'  been  just  such  a 
fool 's  he  is ;  an'  I  don't  know  as  I  call  it  exactly 


38  ZEPH. 

bein'  a  fool,  neither,  any  more  'n  she  does  ! "  And 
with  a  tremendous  effort  Miss  Sophy  shook 
herself  free  from  the  bootless  soliloquy,  and 
went  about  her  work,  reiterating  in  her  mind 
the  original  resolution  with  which  she  had  left 
home  early  in  the  afternoon,  —  that  that  man 
must  be  "looked  after." 


ZEPH.  39 


II. 


WHEN  Zeph  left  Miss  Sophy's  door  he  had 
in  his  mind  no  specific  plan  of  action,  although 
from  his  brisk  gait  one  would  have  supposed 
him  to  have  in  view  a  definite  goal  which  he 
wished  to  reach  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 
He  walked  on,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left,  till  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
at  the  farthest  possible  remove  from  his  own 
house.  Here  the  land  fell  away  abruptly  into 
bottoms  through  which  ran  a  stream,  low  and 
shrunken  now  from  the  long  drought.  The 
sight  of  the  water  was  the  first  thing  which 
roused  him  from  the  vague  yet  painful  reverie 
in  which  he  had  been  walking.  As  he  looked 
into  the  water,  he  thought  to  himself,  "  If  it  was 
's  high  's  I  Ve  seen  it  in  the  spring  freshets,  I 


40  ZP:PH. 


believe  I  'd  jump  in  and  make  an  end  o'  this 
misery.  Perhaps  't  would  be  better  for  her  if  I 
was  out  o'  the  world  altogether.  But  a  fellow  'd 
have  to  hold  himself  down,  to  drown  in  that 
depth  o'  water."  And  with  a  dreary  smile  at 
the  thought  he  turned  back  towards  the  town. 
Suddenly  a  new  idea  struck  him. 

"  Mebbe  she  's  gone  home  now,  an'  she  '11  be 
worse  'n  ever,  not  findin'  any  fire  nor  nothin' 
to  cook.  I  '11  go  home  an'  clear  up,  and  get 
some  steak !  "  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  drew  out  the  few  bits  of  money  he  had 
there,  —  less  than  two  dollars  in  all.  He  sighed 
bitterly  as  he  looked  at  it.  "  Come  to  that,  has 
it,  an'  I  hain't  bought  a  mouthful  to  eat  to-day ! 
Don't  take  long  to  play  a  man  out,  lying  by 
this  way.  But  there  's  enough  for  a  good  sup 
per  to-night !  "  And  he  quickened  his  pace. 

How  many  times  had  he  made  just  such  boot 
less  returns  as  this,  each  time  lured  on  by  a 
stronger  and  stronger  hope  that  surely  now  she 


ZEPH.  41 

would  have  come  back;  he  would  see  a  light 
at  the  window  telling  him  she  was  there;  she 
must  have  come  by  this  time !  And  each  time  it 
had  been  only  a  delusion ;  each  time  the  empty, 
silent  house  and  the  cold,  blackened  hearth  had 
mocked  his  misery  anew,  and  he  had  turned 
away  sicker  at  heart,  more  despairing  than  ever, 
to  resume  his  hopeless  quest. 

"  She  likes  beefsteak  better  'n  anythin'  else," 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  entered  the  streets  once 
more  and  looked  on  the  brightly  lighted  shops 
on  either  hand.  "I  '11  get  a  first-rate  good  one ; 
and  there 's  a  bit  o'  horse-radish  left  in  the 
tumbler;  she  likes  that."  And  as  he  went  on 
with  his  foolish,  affectionate  plannings,  the  hope 
in  his  bosom  grew  stronger,  till  he  half  per 
suaded  himself  that  he  knew  she  was  at  home 
waiting  for  him  to  bring  the  supper,  or  that  his 
thus  making  ready  for  her  would  bring  her 
before  long.  And  yet  he  had  done  this  very 
thing,  hoped  this  unreasoning  hope,  scores  of 


42  ZEPH. 

times  before,  all  in  vain.  Why  did  he  still  con 
tinue  to  hope?  He  could  not  have  told. 

As  he  paid  for  the  meat  the  butcher,  eying 
him  closely,  said,  "All  well  at  home,  Riker?" 

Zeph  gave  a  slight  start,  but  recovering  him 
self  instantly,  replied,  "  Thank  you ;  I  hope  so. 
Hain't  been  home  since  mornin'." 

"  Don't  that  beat  all?"  said  the  butcher, 
after  he  had  gone,  turning  to  his  assistant. 
"  Nobody  's  never  heard  Zeph  Riker  admit  it 
yet  when  his  wife  's  run  off  from  him  an'  he  's 
a  huntin'  her;  an'  he  don't  never  exactly  lie 
about  it  neither.  He's  always  got  his  answer 
ready." 

"  He  's  a  blamed  fool  he  don't  bill  her,"  said 
the  assistant. 

"  That  's  so,"  replied  the  other.  "  A  little 
teched  in  the  upper  story,  I  reckon.  But 
he  's  a  good  fellow  's  ever  lived ;  an'  she  's  a 
handsome  huzzy.  I  expect  he  can't  let  go  on 
her." 


ZEPH.  43 

"  Well,  I  'd  let  go  on  her  mighty  quick  if 
she  b'longed  to  me.  I  know  that !  I  say  he 's 
a  blamed  fool ! "  replied  the  assistant,  waxing 
wrathy.  "  Why,  she  's  been  took  up,  'n'  in 
jail.  She  was  down  to  the  beer-garden  with 
that  Nat  V  a  lot  o'  others,  'n'  they  all  got 
tight,  'n'  kicked  up  such  a  row  the  night 
watchman  clapped  the  hull  batch  of  'em  into 
the  lock-up ;  'n'  Riker  he  went  right  into  court 
'n'  paid  everything,  'n'  got  her  out  'n'  took  her 
home.  She  might  ha'  rotted  there  for  all  me, 
if  I  'd  been  her  husband." 

"  When  ye  Ve  got  a  wife  o'  your  own,  mebbe 
ye  '11  know  more  'n  you  do  now,"  said  the 
butcher,  going  to  the  door  and  looking  after 
Zeph's  figure,  now  nearly  lost  in  the  darkness. 
"He's  a  streakin'  it  like  lightnin'.  I  do  be 
lieve  the  fellow  thinks  she's  to  home  waitin' 
for  him." 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  the  assistant. 

"  Out  on  the  mesa,  in  them  freighters'  camp," 


44  ZEPH. 

replied  the  butcher.  "  She  's  been  there  three 
days,  cookin'  for  'em,  'n'  trainin'  like  Sam  Hill. 
I  tell  you  she  's  a  flyer !  But  she  can  cook,  you 
bet.  Tim  was  in  to-day  buyin'  veal  'n'  a  tur 
key.  He  said  they  was  goin'  to  keep  Sunday 
in  that  camp,  and  no  mistake !  they  'd  got 
Rusha  Riker  for  cook  and  Sal  Leeson  for 
preacher !  If  Riker  'd  ever  ask  anybody  where 
she  's  gone  to,  he  'd  find  out  a  heap  quicker  'n 
he  does.  But  he  's  too  proud.  He  never  opens 
his  head  to  nobody,  an'  there  ain't  nobody 
goin'  to  volunteer  to  tell  him;  'n'  so  he  goes 
sozzlin'  round,  'n'  wastin'  his  time,  'n'  gettin' 
out  o'  pocket.  I  hain't  much  patience  with 
him  myself,  I  own ;  but  I  don't  know  how  we  'd 
any  of  us  act  if  we  was  placed  just 's  he  is.  It  's 
pretty  hard  tellin'." 

As  Zeph  drew  near  his  home  he  walked 
faster.  The  more  he  thought,  the  surer  he 
felt  she  would  be  there;  the  more  he  blamed 
himself  for  not  having  had  everything  ready  for 


ZEPH.  45 

her  at  early  dusk.     "  I  might  ha'  remembered," 
he  said  to  himself  remorsefully,  "  that  its  bein' 
Saturday  night  'd  be  likely  to  bring  her  home, 
for  she  hain't  took  none  o'  her  best  things  nor 
the  youngsters',  an'  of  course  she  '11  come  back 
to  get  'em  even  if  she  don't  stay."   And  he  broke 
into  a  run  at  the  top  of  the  hill  above  the  Flat 
walling   it  to  the  west.     Twinkling  lights   like 
fireflies  shone  all  over  the  place;   the  humble 
homes  there  were  thick  set;  a  rush  of  emotion 
came   over   Zeph   as   he    saw   the    glimmering 
lights.     "All   them   homes,"  he   thought,  "  an' 
not  one  of  'em  's  got  such  trouble  's  I  have ! 
God!    but   it's   hard!"     And   he   pressed   on, 
newly   disheartened,   as   so    many   lonely  souls 
have  been,  by  the  simple  sight  of  home-lights 
gleaming. 

As  he  turned  the  corner,  where,  if  a  light  were 
burning  in  his  own  window  it  would  greet  his 
eye,  his  heart  beat  loud.  «  If  she  ain't  there 
this  time  I  think  it  '11  kill  me !  "  he  muttered. 


46  ZEPH. 


All  was  dark.  She  was  not  there.  He  stopped, 
gazed,  threw  down  his  parcels  on  the  ground, 
and  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast.  The  moon 
was  just  coming  up  in  the  east,  beyond  the 
wide  plains  which  stretched  away,  it  seemed 
endlessly.  Zeph  looked  at  it  with  dogged  dis 
like.  "  I  don't  need  no  moonlight  to-night," 
he  thought.  "  I  forgot  't  was  full  moon.  I 
might  ha'  known  she  would  n't  come  home 
early  if  't  was  full  moon.  She  's  foolin'  some 
where." 

The  moon  came  up  fast;  its  white  light  fell 
on  the  beams  of  the  unfinished  frame,  which 
stood  mute  record  of  the  terrible  ruin  of  all 
Zeph's  plans  and  hopes  of  a  home.  The  out 
lines  of  the  building  loomed  out  against  the  sky 
like  a  black  skeleton,  and  smote  Zeph's  very 
heart.  "  Just  about 's  much  home  's  I  Ve  got," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  A  kind  of  a  ghost  it  looks 
like,  in  this  light,  'n'  that 's  about  what  it  is  !  I 
believe  I  '11  take  the  thing  down.  The  lumber  'd 


ZEPH.  47 


bring  considerable.  But  she  '11  throw  it  up  at 
me  if  I  do;  she's  always  blamin'  me  for  not 
finishin'  it.  I  guess  most  folks  'd  say  the 
house  she  's  got  's  good  enough  to  run  away 
from ! "  And  Zeph  strode  on  gloomily,  with 
reluctant  steps. 

Entering  the  house,  he  looked  around  the 
room  with  a  bitter  expression  on  his  face. 
"  I  Ve  a  mind  to  clear  out  too,"  he  thought. 
"What's  the  use  o'  goin'  on  this  way?  But, 
no,  I  can't.  I  can't  leave  her  so  long  's 
there  's  a  chance  o'  gettin'  her  right.  She  did 
care  for  me  once,  I  know  she  did ;  an'  she  is 
real  fond  o'  the  children;  there  can't  nobody 
say  she  does  n't  love  them  even  if  she  has  got 
so  set  against  me ;  an'  if  she  had  n't  got  some 
good  heart  somewhere  she  'd  hate  them  too 
just  because  I  'm  their  father.  I  Ve  heard  o' 
women's  turnin'  thet  way  till  they  could  n't 
bide  the  sight  o'  husband  nor  children,  either 
one  o'  them.  It  's  a  kind  o'  craziness  comes 


48  ZEPH. 

over  'em.  Poor  Rushy !  Seems  's  if  she  must 
be  crazy." 

While  thinking  these  thoughts  he  was  me 
chanically  moving  about  the  rooms,  setting 
things  into  place,  putting  back  the  tumbled 
clothes  into  the  drawers,  making  the  beds; 
then  he  lighted  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  open 
ing  the  drawer  in  the  table  took  out  a  fresh 
candle  and  set  it  in  the  candlestick.  "  That's 
the  last  but  one,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  light  it, 
an*  then  if  she  does  come  in,  she  '11  know  I  '11 
be  back  before  long." 

He  put  the  beefsteak  on  a  platter  by  the 
candlestick.  "  So  she  '11  see  it  first  thing,"  he 
thought,  "  an'  know  I  got  something  good  for 
supper." 

Then  he  went  out,  locking  the  door  and 
putting  the  key  in  their  usual  hiding-place  for 
it,  —  a  hollow  under  the  tying-post. 

The  thought  of  the  freighters'  camp  had  at 
last  occurred  to  him,  and  he  could  not  rest  now 


ZEPH.  49 


till  he  had  found  out  if  his  wife  were  there.  He 
groaned  aloud  as  he  turned  his  steps  toward 
the  mesa. 

"I'd  'most  as  soon  find  her  dead,"  he  thought, 
"  as  find  her  there  !  Don't  know  but  I  'd  sooner  ! 
If  she  's  been  there  all  this  time,  't  ain't  for  no 
good.  But  then  she's  got  the  children  along. 
She  wouldn't—  And  Zeph  clenched  his 
hands  and  groaned  again. 

The  "mesa"  was  a  high  table-land  stretching 
away  to  the  north  of  the  town,  not  over  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  wide  on  the  top.  Its  sides  were 
broken  up  into  alternating  shallow  canons  and 
soft  rounding  ridges,  grass-grown, — good  places 
for  grazing  and  shelter;  at  the  base  of  the 
western  side  ran  a  little  brook.  It  was  a  fa 
vorite  spot  for  camping,  and  at  times  in  the 
summer  looked  like  an  army  encampment,  so 
thickly  dotted  was  it  with  white  tents  and 
wagons  and  picketed  horses. 

"  It 's  the  strangest  thing  I  never  thought 
4 


50  ZEPH. 


o'  that  before !  "  mused  Zeph  as  he  struck  out 
into  the  plain.  "  They  '11  pay  good  wages  to 
a  cook,  the  boys  will,  when  they  're  in  town ; 
and  Rushy  can't  be  beat  at  cookin',  that 's 
one  thing."  And  he  tried  manfully  to  keep 
out  all  other  interpretations  of  her  presence 
there.  "  If  so  be  's  she  's  here/'  he  reiterated 
to  himself,  "  I  'm  a  dumb  fool  to  cry  out  'fore 
I  know  I  'm  hurt  worse  'n  I  am  by  just  not 
knowin'  what 's  got  her. " 

The  moon  was  riding  high  in  the  heavens 
and  flooding  plain,  mesa,  mountains,  all,  with  a 
light  hardly  less  clear  than  sun,  as  Zeph  finally 
climbed  up  through  one  of  the  shorter  canons 
and  came  out  on  the  top  of  the  mesa.  The 
freighters'  camp  was  close  before  him,  —  so 
close  that  he  started,  and  involuntarily  re 
treated  a  step  or  two  into  cover  of  the  ridge, 
lest  he  should  be  too  suddenly  seen.  There 
was  but  one  tent.  From  that  came  sounds  of 
fiddling  and  riotous  laughter. 


ZEPH.  5 1 


"  She 's  there,  for  sure  !  "  sighed  Zeph.  "  Lord 
have  mercy  on  me  !  Has  she  got  them  children 
in  there  this  time  o'  night?  "  and  he  glanced  up 
at  the  moon.  "Ten  o'clock  if  it's  a  minute! 
The  poor  young  uns ! " 

There  were  ten  of  the  freight-wagons  ar 
ranged  in  a  circle  around  the  tent,  some  of 
them  with  rounded  white  tops.  Cautiously 
Zeph  stole  up  to  one  of  these,  parted  the  flaps 
at  the  back,  and  looked  in.  Surely  his  fatherly 
instinct  had  guided  him  to  the  spot.  There  lay 
his  two  children  sound  asleep  on  a  straw  bed 
in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  Surprise,  joy,  an 
guish,  all  held  Zeph  dumb.  As  he  stood  look 
ing  at  them  the  boy  raised  his  head  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  Pappy,  pappy !  "  he  cried,  and  scrambled 
towards  him,  rousing  the  baby,  who  began  to 
whimper. 

"  Hush,  sis,  hush  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "Mammy 
said  she  'd  whip  ye  if  ye  cried  !  It 's  pappy  ! 


52  ZEPH. 

Don't  ye  know  pappy?"  In  a  second  more  the 
little  creature  was  in  her  father's  arms,  and  for 
a  brief  moment  Zeph  felt  himself  glad.  Only 
for  a  moment,  however. 

"  Zephie,"  he  said,  "  where 's  your  mammy?  " 
"In   there,"   replied   the    child,   pointing  to 
wards    the    tent.      "  There 's    a    lot    o'  men    in 
there;  they're  dancin' ;    the  men's  beds  is  all 
took  out." 

"  Who 's  there  besides  mammy  ?  any  other 
women  besides  mammy  ? "  asked  Zeph,  his 
words  stifling  him  as  he  spoke  them. 

"  Nobody  but  Sal,"  replied  Zephie.  "  She  '.s 
here  all  the  time  to  help  mam  cook.  Mam  says 
she  never  cooked  so  much  vittles  before.  Mam 
reckons  they  must  ben  starved  where  they 
come  from.  Splendid  vittles,  pap,  they  has! 
It's  bully!  Why  didn't  you  come  too,  pap? 
Mam  was  tellin'  some  o'  the  men  she  was  a 
lookin'  for  ye  to  come  'fore  now." 

Bitter  gall  and  wormwood  to  the  father's  ears 


ZEPH.  53 


were  these  innocent  prattlings  of  his  boy.  Too 
well  he  knew  the  gibe  and  jest  with  which  his 
wife  had  told  "  some  of  the  men  "  she  was  look 
ing  for  him  to  appear  on  the  scene.  Too  well 
he  knew  the  "  Sal "  who  was  her  assistant,  — 
one  of  the  most  notorious  women  in  the  town, 
and  sister  of  the  man  to  whom  Zeph  still  per 
suaded  himself  he  owed  all  the  misery  which 
had  come  into  his  married  life.  He  was  mis 
taken.  Nat  Leeson  was  merely  one  man  among 
many  who  had  had  right  to  mock  at  his  dis 
honor;  but  it  was  Nat  Leeson  with  whom  his 
wife's  relations  were  now  openly  and  flaunt- 
ingly  intimate.  It  was  Nat  Leeson  for  whom 
she  really  cared,  so  far  as  it  was  in  her 
shallow,  unprincipled  nature  to  care  for  any 
man. 

"  We  're  comin'  home  to-morrow,  pap,"  con 
tinued  Zephie;  "mam  says  she  's  tired  out;  V 
the  teams  is  all  goin'  to  start  up  the  mountains 
early  Monday  mornin' ;  so  mam  'n'  Sally  's  goin' 


54  ZEPH. 


to  cook  up  lots  o'  vittles  to-morrow  for  'em  to 
take,  'n'  then  we  're  comin'  home." 

"  Be  ye?  That 's  good  !  "  said  Zeph.  "  You 
tell  mammy  pap  's  real  glad  ye  're  comin'  home, 
will  ye?" 

"  Stay,  pap,"  replied  the  boy.  "  You  stay, 
too ;  there 's  lots  room  in  here.  Sal  and  mam 
and  us  all  sleeps  in  here.  You  stay;  we're 
goin'  to  have  turkey  to-morrow,  —  an  awful 
big  one." 

"  No,  I  can't  stay,  my  boy,"  replied  Zeph. 
"  Mammy 's  too  busy.  She  don't  want  me.  You 
help  her  all  you  can,  Zephie,  an'  you  be  sure  'n' 
tell  her  pap  was  here,  'n'  he  was  dreadful  glad 
you  was  all  comin'  home  to-morrow,  will  ye? 
Tell  her  pap's  ben  dreadful  lonesome.  Don't 
ye  forget  now  to  tell  her  's  soon  's  she  comes 
to  bed." 

"I'll  tell  her  'n  the  mornin',"  said  Zephie. 
"  I  '11  be  asleep  when  she  comes  to  bed." 

"No,  you   tell    her    to-night,   Zephie,"    said 


ZEPH.  55 


his   father.    "  You   stay  awake  till  she   comes. 
She'll  be  here  pretty  soon,  I  guess.     It's  late 


now." 


"Well,  I'll  try,"  said  the  child;  "but,  pap, 
I'll  be  awful  sleepy  's  soon  's  you're  gone. 
Why  don't  you  go  up  'n'  speak  to  her  in  the 
tent  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  interrupt  the  dancing !  " 
said  poor  Zeph.  "  I  don't  know  any  o'  the 
men." 

"  Yes,  Nat 's  there  !  you  know  him,"  said  the 
child.  "All  the  rest  is  freighters." 

This  was  the  last  drop  in  unhappy  Zeph's 
cup.  It  overflowed. 

«  i  'ii  —  "  he  began  in  a  loud  tone.  "  No, 
I  won't  either,"  he  continued ;  and  kissing  the 
baby,  who  had  nestled  herself  to  sleep  in  his 
arms,  he  laid  her  gently  down  on  the  straw,  and 
then  kissing  the  boy,  said,  "Good-night,  Zephie ; 
be  a  good  boy,  and  take  care  of  your  little 
sister.  Good-night ;  I  must  go  now."  And  as 


56  ZEPH. 


cautiously  as  he  had  come,  he  stole  down  the 
canon  and  was  gone. 

Skirting  along  the  base  of  the  mesa  for  some 
rods,  he  climbed  up  again  at  a  point  some  dis 
tance  the  other  side  of  the  tent,  where  stood  a 
clump  of  huge  pine-trees.  Seating  himself  on 
the  ground,  partially  hid  by  the  trunk  of  the 
largest  of  these  trees,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
tent.  Now  that  he  knew  his  wife  was  there, 
he  would  watch  the  place  all  night.  It  appeared 
to  him  that  the  moon  stood  still  in  the  sky,  so 
long  did  the  moments  seem  before  the  freight 
ers'  revelry  broke  up.  At  last,  with  loud  laugh 
ing  and  talking,  the  party  came  out  from  the 
tent  and  separated  for  the  night :  the  men  going 
to  their  respective  wagons,  and  his  wife  and 
Sal — with  what  breathless  anguish  he  watched 
their  every  step !  —  to  the  wagon  in  which  the 
children  lay.  Soon  the  lights  were  all  out,  and 
the  stillness,  the  unutterable  wilderness  stillness, 
rested  on  the  place.  Zeph  drew  a  long  breath 


ZEPH.  57 

of  relief.     "  That 's  over !  "  he  said  aloud,  and 
leaned  his  head  back  against  the  tree. 

He   had   eaten   nothing   since   morning,   but 
he  was  not  conscious  of  hunger  or  faintness. 
He  had  been  under  such  a  mental  strain   that 
all  physical  sensations  were  dulled.     He  could 
not  have  told,  had  he  been  asked,  when  he  last 
ate  food.     Matters   seemed  to  him  to   be   fast 
approaching  a  crisis  in  his  life ;  he  felt  a  vague 
terror   of  he   knew   not  what,  — some   terrible 
catastrophe    approaching.     He    had    felt    this 
fear-stricken  presentiment   growing  within   him 
rapidly  during  the  last   three    days.     None    of 
his  previous  experiences  of  suffering  in  conse 
quence  of  his  wife's  conduct  had  so  told  upon 
him.     No    one    of    her    unexplained     or   only 
too  well   explained    absences   from   home  had 
crushed   him   like    this   last    one.     As   he    sat 
hour  after  hour  in  this  strange  solitude,  alone, 
as  it  almost  seemed,  in  the  universe,  with  the 
vast  star-set  dome  of  the  sky  above  him  and 


58  ZEPH. 

the  vast  rayless  plains  stretching  around  him, 
the  near  mountains  looming  up  colossal  and 
black  like  an  eternal  barrier  in  the  west,  he 
lived  these  absences  all  over  again  in  full  and 
harrowing  detail. 

The  first  one,  —  that  was  three  years  ago. 
How  well  he  recollected  his  fright  when  he 
found  her  gone;  the  angry  incredulity  with 
which  he  heard  Gammer  Stein's  half-implied 
reflection  on  her  character  that  night;  the  joy 
with  which  he  welcomed  her  back  the  next 
morning,  and  the  full  acceptance  he  had  given 
to  her  story  of  having  been  watching  with  the 
sick  child  of  a  neighbor,  the  child  too  sick  to 
be  left,  and  no  one  in  the  house  who  could  be 
sent  with  a  message  to  him.  It  was  not  many 
weeks  before  he  knew  that  this  was  a  shame 
ful,  shameless  lie.  And  after  that  miseries  had 
thickened  in  his  life, —  his  own  house  a  gather 
ing-place  of  the  disgraceful  and  the  disgraced ; 
his  wife  oftener  and  oftener  absent,  sometimes 


ZEPH.  59 


with  excuse,  sometimes  without;  her  intimate 
associates  men  and  women  with  whom  no 
self-respecting  person  would  consort;  his  earn 
ings  wasted  on  fineries  or  worse. 

"  It 's  been  just  a  hell  on  earth,  that 's  what 
it 's  been,"  he  thought,  as  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands  at  some  of  the  reminiscences. 
That  brief  interval  of  quiet  of  a  few  months 
during  which  the  last  child  had  been  born, — 
the  little  girl  from  whose  unconscious  influ 
ence  over  the  mother's  heart  he  had  hoped 
much,  —  recurred  to  him  now,  in  this  bitter 
retrospect,  merely  as  an  intensification  of  his 
woe.  "And  me  hopin'  its  bein'  a  girl  might 
maybe  save  her!  I  don't  see  why  I  thought 
that  'd  make  any  difference  if  the  boy  did  n't !  " 

How  vividly  he  recalled  the  day  when  they 
were  discussing  the  baby's  name ;  and  his  wife 
having  expressed  the  desire  to  give  it  her  own 
name,  he  had  taken  heart  from  that,  and  said  to 
her  meaningly,  "  Would  ye  really  like  to  have 


60  ZEPH. 

her  called  by  your  name,  Rushy?"  and  she, 
in  her  usual  flippant  tone,  and  yet  he  fancied 
with  a  shade  of  feeling  in  her  face,  had  an 
swered,  "  You  Ve  got  the  boy  named  for  you, 
an'  I  should  think  the  girl  ought  to  be  named  for 
me;  that's  no  more  'n  fair;"  and  he  had  made 
haste  to  reply,  "  Of  course  't  ain't,  an'  I  'd  rather 
call  her  Rushy  than  any  other  name  'n  all  the 
world,  'n'  you  know  that,  wife,  without  my  tellin' 
ye ;  'n'  she  's  goin'  to  favor  you  in  looks,  too ; 
anybody  with  half  an  eye  can  see  that  a'ready ; 
so  there  '11  be  two  Rushy  Rikers  the  first  thing 
ye  know."  And  when  he  said  this  his  wife 
colored,  and  said,  "  I  hope  to  goodness  she  '11 
turn  out  better  'n  the  first  Rushy  Riker  !  "  And 
he,  poor  fool,  had  gone  about  for  many  a  week 
nuggmg  that  exclamation  to  his  soul  as  an 
omen  and  token  of  good  coming  to  their  lives. 
But  it  was  short-lived.  Before  her  baby  was 
three  months  old  the  old  demons  of  love  of 
admiration,  excitement,  finery,  folly,  and  sin 


ZEPH.  6 1 


had  got  full  hold  again  of  her  weak  and  un 
stable  nature,  and  all  was  as  bad  as  before, 
or  worse. 

Then  came  the  most  flagrant  of  all  her  mis 
demeanors, —  the  drunken  frolic  at  the  beer-gar 
den  and  the  disgrace  of  the  lock-up ;  and  after 
that  all  sense  of  shame  or  of  restraint  seemed  to 
leave  her ;  and  finally,  only  a  few  weeks  ago,  the 
most  daring  of  all  her  escapades,  when,  taking 
the  baby,  she  had  gone  to  Denver  openly  in 
the  company  of  Nat  Leeson  and  his  sister; 
then  it  was  that  Zeph,  at  his  wits'  end,  had  sold 
some  of  their  furniture  and  his  kit  of  carpen 
ter's  tools  to  get  money  for  the  journey,  put 
the  boy  into  Gammer  Stein's  motherly  keeping, 
followed  and  tracked  her ;  and  for  the  first  and 
only  time  exercising  his  husbandly  authority  over 
her,  had  brought  her  home.  But  it  was  only 
an  enforced  return.  She  was  sullen,  reluctant, 
full  of  hatred  and  reproaches.  "  A  pretty  home 
it  was,"  she  said,  "  to  bring  a  woman  back  to, 


62  ZEPH. 

stripped  of  half  the  furniture,  and  not  a  dollar 
to  buy  anything  with  !  "  If  he  'd  let  her  alone, 
she  'd  make  her  own  living  an*  not  be  beholden 
to  anybody. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Rushy !  "  cried  Zeph, 
the  only  time  in  his  life  he  had  thus  spoken  to 
her.  "  Don't  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  about 
makin'  your  own  livin'  !  If  you  '11  stay  at 
home  an'  keep  decent,  I  '11  keep  ye  in  as  good 
a  livin'  as  folks  o'  our  station  needs !  I  'd  ha' 
had  a  good  house  done  for  ye  now,  if  ye  'd 
done's  ye'd  oughter." 

"  It 's  easy  makin'  excuses,"  she  retorted ;  "  ye 
never  did  have  no  spunk,  an'  it 's  a  mighty  poor 
livin'  ye '11  ever  get  in  this  world.  I  donno 
what's  hendered  your  buildin'  the  house  'fore 
now,  'cept  your  own  laziness !  " 

"I'll  tell  ye  what's  hendered  me,  Rushy," 
replied  Zeph,  thoroughly  angered,  —  "runnin' 
round  all  creation  huntin'  you,  'n'  sellin'  my  tools 
to  get  money  to  follow  ye  an'  keep  ye  from 


ZEPH.  63 


comin'  on  the  town!  That's  what's  hendered 
me;  an'  'twill  hender  me,  too,  s'  long's  ye  go 
on  as  ye  're  doin' !  " 

As  Zeph  lived  over  this  bitterest  of  all  their 
quarrels  his  heart  smote  him  remorsefully. 

"  I  expect  I  was  too  fierce  with  her,"  he 
thought.  "  Perhaps  if  I  'd  been  real  lovin'  then 
she  'd  ha'  come  round.  She 's  been  lots  worse 
ever  since  then,  V  I  expect  I  did  n't  manage 
right.  I  '11  try  V  see  if  I  can't  be  different  to 
her  to-morrow  when  she  comes  home.  She  's 
had  the  children  along  with  her  this  time,  'n' 
that's  some  comfort." 

It  was  near  morning  when  Zeph  finally  fell 
into  an  uneasy  sleep.  His  sorrows  pursued  him 
even  there,  and  he  dreamed  a  nightmare  dream 
of  seeing  his  wife  at  the  window  of  a  burning 
house  and  being  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot 
to  her  rescue.  He  opened  his  eyes  with  the 
horror  of  this  dream  full  upon  him,  and  for  the 
first  second  thought  the  dream  was  no  dream, 


64  ZEPH. 

but  actual  truth ;  for  the  sky  over  his  head  and 
the  whole  front  of  the  mountain  range  on  his 
right  were  red  as  from  the  light  of  a  conflagra 
tion.  Bewildered,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a 
cry,  but  in  the  same  second  sank  down  again, 
saying,  "  It  's  only  the  sun  a  comin'  up  !  Lord ! 
How  it  scared  me !  " 

It  was  the  marvellous  rosy  dawn  peculiar 
to  high  altitudes.  So  vivid,  so  fiery  a  glow 
does  it  spread  over  both  sky  and  earth  for 
a  few  seconds  before  sunrise,  that  when  the 
sun  is  above  the  horizon,  and  the  day  fairly 
breaks,  the  light  seems  less,  and  not  more,  and 
the  earth  and  sky  darkened  instead  of  illu 
mined. 

All  was  still  in  the  freighters'  camp.  A  few 
faint  upward  curls  of  smoke  in  the  distant  town 
were  the  only  signs  of  life  in  the  beautiful  land 
scape.  As  Zeph  gazed  on  the  picture  he  felt 
insensibly  strengthened. 

"  T  don't  seem  's  if  folks  need  to  suffer  so  'n 


ZEPH.  65 

such  a  world  's  this,"  he  thought;  "  things  must 
come  out  right,  sooner  or  later,  somehow,  if 
there  's  any  kind  o'  reason  'n  anything.  It  don't 
look  no  ways  likely  that  God  set  it  all  a  goin' 
jest  to  make  folks  miserable!  I  expect  it's 
all  our  own  fault,  somewheres,  if  things  goes 
wrong !  I  believe  Rushy  'n'  I  '11  get  on  yet.  If 
I  could  once  rake  'n'  scrape  money  enough  to 
take  her  clean  out  o'  this  place  'n'  begin  over 
again,  that  would  be  best;  but  how  to  fetch 
that  about  I  don't  see  !  " 

Time  slipped  by  imperceptibly  to  Zeph 
absorbed  in  his  reverie,  and  an  hour  or  more 
had  gone,  when  he  was  roused  by  the  sounds  of 
stirring  in  the  camp.  Hastily  concealing  him 
self  in  a  ravine,  he  lay  stretched  along  the 
ground,  only  his  eyes  above  the  edge  of  the 
mesa,  and  watched  every  movement.  He  saw 
his  wife  and  Sal  come  out,  the  children  follow 
ing,  the  fires  lighted  in  the  camp  stoves,  the 
preparations  for  cooking  begun.  Presently  he 
5 


saw  Nat  Leeson  stroll  up  towards  the  stoves  and 
stop  to  talk  with  his  sister. 

"  If  I  see  him  go  nigh  Rushy  I  '11  do  some 
harm,  I  know  I  shall,"  said  Zeph.  "I'll  not 
risk  it.  I'll  leave  here."  And  darting  down  the 
ravine  he  set  off  by  a  circuitous  route,  on  which 
he  could  not  be  seen,  towards  home. 

When  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
the    church-bells    were    ringing.      The    sound 
seemed  full  of  unwonted  invitation  to  Zeph.     It 
was  long  since  he  had  been  inside  the  walls  of 
a  church.     In  the  first  years  of  their  married 
life  Rushy  had  been  fond  of  going  to  meeting 
of  a  Sunday,  and  he  had  been  only  too  proud 
to   go  with  her  and   see   the   admiration   with 
which  people  looked  at  her  handsome  face  and 
pretty  clothes.     Even  then  were  to  be  seen,  if 
Zeph  had  only  had  the  wisdom  to  recognize 
them,  the  germs  of  all  the  misery  and  shame 
which  time  had  since  brought.     But  he  looked 
on  with  the  blinded  eyes  of  a  man's  first  un- 


ZEPH.  67 


reasoning  passion,  saw  nothing  wrong,  thought 
no  harm,  feared  no  evil.  He  even  shared  the 
pride,  which  seemed  innocent,  in  the  undeniable 
fact  that  Rushy  was  the  handsomest  woman  in 
the  congregation.  And  now,  alas,  it  was  for 
Rushy's  sake,  and  because  of  her  beauty, 
that  he  was  ashamed  to  look  any  man  in  the 
eye! 

A  strange  desire  seized  him  to  go  this  morn 
ing  and  hear  what  the  preacher  had  to  say. 
He  looked  down  at  his  clothes.  They  were 
shabby  enough,  certainly;  not  at  all  what  he 
would  once  have  thought  it  necessary  to  wear 
to  be  decent  at  church.  But  Zeph  had  been 
down  into  depths  from  which  all  thoughts  of 
trivial  considerations  had  long  ago  vanished. 
He  smiled  half  sadly  as  he  turned  towards  the 
church  door,  saying  to  himself,  "  I  would  n't 
have  been  caught  goin'  to  meetin'  in  such  does 
's  these  once;  but  I  guess  it  don't  make  any 
difference  to  nobody  but  me,  'n'  I  feel  a  real 


68  ZEPH. 


call  to  hear  some  hymn-singin'  to-day.  It'll 
get  rid  o'  the  mornin',  too,  quicker  'n  any  other 
way.  I  hain't  got  anythin*  to  do  but  wait  the 
day  out  till  she  comes  home  to-night.  She 
won't  be  down,  I  don't  suppose,  before  dark." 
And  Zeph  slipped  in  and  sat  down  humbly  in 
one  of  the  side  pews  nearest  the  door,  which  he 
knew  were  free  to  all.  It  was  early.  The  bells 
he  had  heard  were  the  first  bells.  No  one  was 
in  the  building  except  the  sexton,  who  was 
bustling  about,  giving  last  touches  of  dusting  to 
the  pulpit  Bible.  Presently  two  women  entered, 
bringing,  one  a  large  sheaf  of  white  clematis 
blooms,  the  other  a  high  vase  filled  with  the 
feathery  tassels  of  Indian  corn  and  a  few  of  the 
graceful,  tall,  sword-like  leaves.  It  was  the  cus 
tom  for  the  women  of  this  congregation  to  take 
turns  in  decorating  the  church  for  the  Sunday 
services;  and  there  was  much  vying  among 
them,  and  continual  exercise  of  ingenuity,  each 
to  outdo  the  others  in  effective  arrangement  of 


ZEPH.  69 

flowers.  As  they  walked  up  the  aisle  Zeph's 
eyes  followed  them  with  astonishment. 

"  If  that  ain't  just  common  field  corn,  's 
sure  's  I  'm  alive,"  he  said ;  "  'n'  it 's  prettier  'n 
the  flowers  be,  heaps  !  Well,  I  never !  "  And 
for  the  moment  he  forgot  his  misery  in  watch 
ing  the  women  dispose  their  bouquets  on  the 
reading-desk  and  table. 

Presently  one  of  them  turned  briskly  and 
stepped  down  the  aisle  to  look  up  at  the  desk 
to  see  if  the  arrangement  could  be  improved. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  said  Zeph.  And  in  the  same  in 
stant  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  on  the  back 
of  the  seat  in  front  of  him.  "That's  that  Miss 
Burr  I  was  askin'  after  Rushy  last  night.  I  don't 
want  her  to  see  me.  She'll  be  sure  to  spry 
round  here  askin'  if  I  've  found  her.  She 's 
dreadful  active."  And  Zeph  remained  bowed 
over,  his  face  hid  from  view,  till  he  heard  their 
steps  leaving  the  church. 

It  was  indeed  Miss  Sophy;  and  as  she  came 


70  ZEPH. 


down  the  aisle,  her  quick  eyes  catching  sight  of 
Zeph's  bowed  figure,  she  said  to  her  companion : 
"Just  look  at  that  man  all  doubled  up  there 
in  the  poor-pews.  I  do  declare,  I  think  it's  a 
shame  to  have  any  such  thing  's  poor-pews :  it 's 
a  kind  o'  badge  o'  disgrace  to  sit  there ;  1  Ve 
known  lots  'n'  lots  o'  poor  folks  that  would  n't 
set  foot  'n  'em,  not  if  they  never  heard  a  ser 
mon  t'  their  dyin'  day,  they  said.  I  always  feel 
ashamed  when  I  go  by  'em  'n'  shut  the  door  t' 
my  pew.  It 's  borne  in  on  me  't  ain't  Christian. 
I  think  the  Catholics  are  lots  better  'n  we  are 
!  about  that,  —  lots.  There  ain't  anything  but 
poor-pews  'n  their  churches,  'n'  that 's  the  way 
it  ought  to  be,  —  free  to  all." 

"  How  you  do  talk,  Sophy ! "  replied  her  com 
panion,  good  Mrs.  Jones.  "  Why  don't  you  be 
a  Catholic  'n'  done  with  it,  if  you  think  their 
way's  so  much  better  'n  ours?" 

"I  don't !"  retorted  Miss  Sophy,  —  "  nothin' 
o'  the  kind.  But  I  say  they  Ve  got  the  right 


ZEPH.  71 


idea  about  seatin'  people.  No  wonder  they 
get  all  the  poor  people ;  —  I  should  think  they 
would.  I  wouldn't  stir  into  our  church  if  I 
could  n't  hire  my  pew,  the  way  't  is  now ;  but 't 
ain't  right,  'n'  't  won't  last,  neither.  You  '11  see 
it  don't  last.  'T  won't  be  a  great  many  years 
before  there  '11  be  free  sittin's,  's  they  call  it, 
in  every  church  'n  America." 

"Well,  then  there'll  be  lots  o'  rich  people '11 
stay  away  'stead  o'  the  poor  people ! "  retorted 
Mrs.  Jones.  "Who  wants  to  sit  alongside  o' 
such  a  common-looking  day-laborer  's  that  ?  " 
pointing  to  Zeph. 

"  He 's  clean  enough,"  replied  Miss  Sophy, 
eying  Zeph  closely  as  they  passed  out.  "  I 
wouldn't  mind  sitting  alongside  of  him.  He 
must  be  awfully  broken  down,  somehow,  to  be 
in  here  this  time  o'  day,  sittin'  all  scrouched  into 
a  heap  like  that.  I  Ve  a  good  mind  to  go  speak 
to  him."  And  she  halted. 

"  Sophy  Burr,  you  come  right  straight  along 


72  ZEPH. 

out  this  minute !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jones,  raising 
her  voice  indignantly  above  the  decorous  whis 
per  in  which  they  had  been  conversing.  "  I  do 
believe  you'd  take  all  the  dead  beats  'n  this 
town  on  your  shoulders  if  you  could.  You 
sha'n't  go  near  the  man !  "  And  as  Miss  Sophy, 
laughing,  allowed  herself  to  be  dragged  out  of 
the  doorway,  Zeph  lifted  his  head  with  a  sense 
of  relief  and  escape. 

Just  as  the  congregation  stood  up  for  the  first 
singing,  the  door  of  the  pew  where  he  sat  was 
timidly  opened,  and  a  lame  old  woman,  dressed 
in  rusty  black,  leading  a  little  boy,  edged  shame 
facedly  in,  glancing  with  a  mute  apology  in  her 
eyes  at  Zeph.  Sitting  down  slowly  and  with 
difficulty,  she  motioned  to  the  child  to  stand ; 
whispering  to  Zeph,  "I've  got  the  rheumatiz 
so  't  I  can't  keep  on  my  feet.''  The  child,  shy, 
and  unwonted  to  the  place,  refused  to  stand  up, 
and  clinging  to  her  skirts  began  to  whimper. 
Zeph  reached  out  his  hand  to  him,  with  a  smile, 


ZEPH.  73 

and  whispered,  "  You  stand  up  here  by  me." 
The  little  fellow  yielded  at  once,  the  old  woman 
looking  on  wonderingly  at  his  sudden  obedi 
ence  to  a  stranger.  When  the  singing  was  over, 
the  child,  instead  of  drawing  close  to  her,  nestled 
up  to  Zeph,  and  laid  one  hand  confidingly  on 
his  knee.  It  was  a  small  thing,  a  very  small 
thing,  but  it  comforted  Zeph.  Putting  his  arm 
round  the  little  chap,  he  drew  him  closer,  and 
resting  his  head  comfortably  against  his  shoulder, 
whispered,  "  Go  to  sleep,  sonny,  if  you  want  to." 
The  boy  looked  up  with  a  vague  smile,  nestled 
again,  and  shut  his  eyes.  'Zeph  hugged  him 
tighter  still,  stroking  his  hair,  and  thinking, 
"  Poor  little  fellow !  He 's  got  to  be  a  man  some 
day!" 

The  minister  had  risen  in  the  pulpit,  opened 
the  Bible,  and  was  reading  his  text. 

What  words  were  these,  falling  on  Zeph's  ear? 
No  wonder  he  started,  —  started  so  violently 
that  the  child  opened  his  dozing  eyes  and  looked 


74  ZEPH. 

up  in  alarm  at  his  new  friend.  An  audible 
exclamation  had  nearly  burst  from  Zeph's  lips. 
He  gazed  at  the  minister  with  an  emotion  very 
like  terror.  Was  this  stranger,  this  man  of 
whom  he  had  never  heard,  speaking  directly 
to  him,  him  alone,  of  all  that  congregation? 
Had  a  message  come  straight  from  Heaven 
to  his  soul  at  this  crisis  in  his  life?  Was  it 
God,  and  no  mere  earthly  voice,  saying  these 
words :  "  I  say  not  unto  thee  until  seven  times, 
but  until  seventy  times  seven  "  ? 

" '  Seventy  times  seven  ! ' "  repeated  the  preach 
er.  "  We  have  heard  it  so  often  that  we  do  not 
realize  what  it  means ;  we  set  it  down  as  a  fig 
ure  of  speech  and  let  it  go  out  of  our  thoughts. 
And  so  it  was  a  figure  of  speech  whereby  the 
Master  intended  to  convey  to  us  the  great  truth 
that  forgiveness  is  to  last  as  long  as  offences 
last,  —  unto  the  very  end,  no  matter  how  long 
the  life,  how  bitter  the  offence.  Is  not  that  the 
way  God  deals  with  us?  Day  after  day,  year 


ZEPH.  75 


after  year,  have  we  not  been  offending  Him, 
breaking  His  law,  slighting  His  love?  We  are 
old,  many  of  us;  have  we  yet  ceased  to  offend? 
Yet  here  comes  this  beautiful  sun  shining  on  us, 
forgiving  us  anew,  this  very  morning." 

"Just  what  I  was  thinkin'  up  on  the  mesa 
there,"  said  Zeph  to  himself,  "  only  I  did  n't  put 
it  that  way." 

"  And  even  if  we  took  the  numbers  literally," 
the  preacher  went  on,  "  even  then,  do  we  live 
up  to  it?  '  Seventy  times  seven :  '  four  hundred 
and  ninety.  Can  we  look  into  our  hearts,  deal 
ing  honestly  with  ourselves,  and  say  we  have  for 
given,  any  one  of  us, — forgiven  so  many  offences 
as  that?  Friend,  neighbor,  husband,  wife,  how 
is  it?  Hast  thou  been  hurt  by  any  one  four 
hundred  and  ninety  times,  and  four  hundred 
and  ninety  times  forgiven  the  hurt,  —  forgiven 
it,  wiped  it  out?" 

It  was  a  homely  and  realistic  putting  of  the 
phrase,  but  it  struck  home  better  than  a  loftier 


76  ZEPH. 

one  would  have  done.  Not  a  pew  in  which 
some  suddenly  remorseful  heart,  thinking  of 
some  one  especial  offender,  did  not  own,  shame- 
smitten,  "  No,  not  so  many  as  that ;  "  and  no 
one  more  swiftly,  remorsefully,  than  the  always 
gentle  Zeph. 

" That's    a    fact!"    he    was    saying    in    his 

thoughts.     "  'T  ain't  been  near  so  many  times  's 

that ;   an'  I  don't  know  either  's  I  Ve  ever  once 

really  forgiven  her,  out  'n'  out,  without  layin' 

•    it  up  to  make  next  time  harder;   'n'  that  ain't 

the  way  the  Lord  figures  it.     'T  would  go  hard 

with  us  ef  He  did !     When  Rushy  comes  home 

to-night  I   don't  mean  to  say  's  much  's  one 

word   t'    her   about  anythin',  only  how  glad  I 

am  to  get  her  to  home  again." 

At  the  end  of  the  sermon  the  preacher,  his 
whole  soul  deeply  stirred  within  him  by  the 
attempt  to  hold  up  in  its  true  light,  shape, 
color,  to  bring  within  his  people's  real  grasp 
the  one  eternal  talisman,— talisman  alike  for  life 


ZEPH.  77 

and  death,  for  time  and  eternity,  Forgiveness,  — 
paused,  and  with  bent  head  and  trembling  voice 
said,  "  Shall  we  dare  now  to  utter  the  prayer  —  " 
He  paused  again.  "Yes.  Since  the  Master 
gave  us  the  words,  we  must  dare  to  use  them ; 
let  us  dare  now  to  utter  this  prayer,  '  Forgive  us 
our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass 
against  us.' " 

Sobs  were  heard  throughout  the  church,  and 
after  the  benediction  the  congregation  dispersed 
silently,  as  from  a  funeral  service.  There  had 
indeed  been  many  a  grave  closed  forever  in 
those  last  few  moments,  —  closed,  and  a  white 
stone  set  in  token ;  it  had  been  a  moment  of 
inspiration  for  the  preacher,  of  salvation  to  the 
people. 

Zeph  passed  out  of  the  door,  the  little  boy 
still  clinging  to  his  hand  and  the  old  woman 
hobbling  by  his  side.  The  poor  do  not  stand 
on  ceremony  with  each  other. 

"  That  was  drefful  good  doctrine  he  preached," 


78  ZEPH. 


she  said  tremulously,  "  but  't  's  pretty  hard  to 
live  up  to.  Guess  he  hain't  had  no  great  crosses 
hisself." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Zeph, 
slowly.  "  I  was  a  thinkin'  mebbe  he  had  had 
more  'n  common,  'r  else  he  would  n't  ha'  thought 
it  all  out  so  clear.  'T  seemed  to  me  he  felt  all 
he  was  sayin'." 

"  There  's  things  can't  be  forgiven  !  "  she  said 
sullenly. 

Zeph  made  no  reply.  Her  words  grated 
on  him.  The  child  looked  up  apprehensively 
as  she  pulled  him  away  into  another  road. 
"I  never  see  him  take  so  to  a  stranger,"  she 
said.  "  Guess  ye  Ve  got  children  o'  your 
own." 

"  Yes,  two,"  replied  Zeph. 

"  He  's  my  grandson,"  she  said.  "  All  I  Ve 
got  left  out  o'  three  boys  'n'  two  girls  :  all 
dead.  But  there  's  lots  o'  things  worse  'n 
death,"  she  added  gloomily.  "  I  Ve  lived  long 


ZEPH.  79 

enough  to  know  that.     Good  day  t'  ye."     And 
she  turned  away. 

" '  Lots  o'  things  worse  'n  death,' "  repeated 
Zeph,  as  he  took  his  lonely  road  home. 
"  That  's  true ;  'n'  then  again  't  ain't  true. 
While  there  's  life,  there  's  hope."  He  felt  him 
self  strangely  cheered  and  lifted.  If  forgive 
ness  were  so  mighty  a  thing  as  the  preacher 
had  said,  —  and  it  must  be,  since  it  was  all  that 
God  had  or  needed  to  save  the  world  by,— 
what  more  could  be  needed  to  straighten  out 
all  the  tangles  of  any  one  little  life?  He  felt 
his  heart  full  of  a  larger,  better  forgiveness  to 
wards  his  wife  than  he  had  ever  before  known ; 
a  warmer  love  than  he  had  felt  for  many  a 
month. 

"  There  is  nothing  love  cannot  do,"  the 
preacher  had  said.  "The  thing  is,  to  be  sure 
that  the  love  is  truly  love,  and  not  selfishness." 

"  I  know  I  love  Rushy,"  thought  Zeph,  "  an' 
't  ain't  selfish  love,  I  know  't  ain't  !  I  'd  give 


So  ZEPH. 


her  up  to-day,  if  I  could  see  any  way  she  'd  be 
better  off  without  me." 

And  with  his  heart  full  of  such  thoughts  as 
these  he  sat  down  to  wait  patiently  till  night  for 
her  return. 


ZEPH.  8 1 


III. 

IT  was  a  bitter  home-coming, —  a  bitter  return 
for  the  forgiving  lovingkindness  awaiting  her. 

Tired,  more  discontented  with  her  home  than 
ever,  bearing  the  baby  in  her  arms,  Rushy 
entered  the  door,  Zephie  following,  carrying  a 
basket  almost  heavier  than  he  could  lift. 

As  her  eyes  fell  upon  her  husband,  who  went 
forward  to  meet  her,  about  to  speak  words  of 
welcome,  she  exclaimed  testily :  "  Oh,  you  're 
here,  are  you  !  sittin'  round,  I  s'pose,  doin' 
nothin',  ever  since  I  went  away." 

A  hot  flush  rose  in  Zeph's  face,  but  he  made 
a  mighty  effort  to  curb  his  anger,  and  answered 
gravely  :  "  No,  Rushy,  I  have  n't  been  sittin' 
much  o'  the  time  these  last  three  days.  I  Ve 
been  huntin'  you." 

6 


82  ZEPH. 


"Well,  ye  might  have  spared  yourself  that 
trouble,"  she  rejoined.  "  If  I  'd  wanted  to  be 
found,  I  could  ha'  told  ye  where  I  was  goin'." 

"  Rushy,"  exclaimed  Zeph,  "  don't  aggravate 
me  so !  I  want  to  live  peaceable  with  ye.  I 
wan't  goin'  to  say  a  word  to  ye  about  havin' 
been  gone  all  this  time  ;  I  '11  do  anythin'  on 
God's  earth  for  ye,  Rushy,  if  ye  '11  only  stay  at 
home  'n'  live  's  ye  'd  oughter." 

She  turned  on  him  like  a  fury:  "  Live  's  I'd 
oughter  !  Ye  miserable,  mean-spirited,  no- 
'count  critter !  I  've  earned  six  dollars  these 
three  days  I've  been  gone;  earned  it  by  as 
hard  work  's  ever  I  did  in  my  life,  —  six 
dollars  in  money,  besides  stuff  enough  in  the 
basket  there  to  feed  the  children  'n'  me  for  two 
days  more.  Have  you  been  earnin'  anything, 
I'd  jest  like  to  know?  Have  you  earned  a  cent, 
now,  these  three  days?  I  say  you're  the  one 
that  had  better  live  as  he'd  oughter  !  "  And  lay 
ing  the  baby  on  the  bed,  she  began  unpacking 


ZEPH.  83 


the  basket  of  food,  and  with  a  triumphant  air 
enumerating  the  articles  as  she  took  them  out : 
"  There  's  cold  turkey  and  veal,  and  corn-starch, 
an'  a  can  o'  tomatoes,  V  tea,  'n'  coffee,  —  better 
vittles  than  there 's  been  in  this  house  for  one 
whiles." 

Zeph  gazed  at  her  in  a  sort  of  dumb  despair. 
He  had  not  been  prepared  for  this.  Like  a 
strange,  far-away  sound  came  into  his  mind 
the  preacher's  words  on  which  he  had  been 
musing  so  much  of  the  day :  "  There  is  noth 
ing  that  love  cannot  do  if  it  is  true  love,  and 
not  selfishness." 

"I  got  a  nice  steak  for  supper,"  he  said. 
"It's  there  on  the  table." 

She  glanced  at  it  contemptuously.  "  What 's 
two  pounds  o'  steak?"  she  said.  "You  can 
keep  it  for  yourself;  we  Ve  got  all  we  want. 
I  'm  goin'  down  town  in  the  mornin'  into 
rooms  I  Ve  got  there.  I  sha'n't  live  here  no 
longer !  " 


84  ZEPH. 


"  Rooms  !  "  gasped  Zeph.  "  Rushy,  what  do 
ye  mean?  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  leave  me  for  good 
an'  all!  You  don't  mean  that,  Rushy?"  And 
he  came  towards  her  with  a  bound,  and  putting 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  looked  her  in  the 
eyes  with  an  expression  which  had  melted  any 
but  a  hardened  heart.  Outraged  love,  indigna 
tion,  incredulity,  were  blended  in  it;  but  over 
and  above  all,  a  yearning  tenderness,  the  whole 
passion  of  a  man's  nature,  that  could  not,  would 
not,  surrender  the  loved  object. 

"  I  '11  never  let  you  go,  Rushy,  never !  "  he 
cried.  "  Ye  don't  mean  it.  You  '11  never  go  'n' 
shame  me  'n'  the  children  'n'  yourself  that  way. 
You  don't  mean  it !  Say  you  don't  mean  it, 
Rushy ! "  And  his  voice  broke  into  almost  a 
sob. 

"  I  do  mean  it  too,  Zeph  Riker,  an'  you  '11 
see  I  mean  it.  I  hate  the  very  sight  of  you, 
'n'  you  know  it ;  an*  if  you  can't  earn  a  livin',  I 
can,  'n'  I  'm  goin'  to ;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  earn 


ZEPH.  85 

it  for  you  too.  The  rooms  is  took  'n'  paid  for, 
V  I  'm  goin'  into  'em  to-morrow." 

Zeph  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  was 
silent.  A  tempest  was  raging  within  him.  A 
terrible  impulse  to  spring  upon  his  wife  and  kill 
her  swept  through  his  veins,  —  gone  in  a  second ; 
yet  it  had  been  there,  and  Zeph  shuddered  as  it 
fled. 

Again  the  far-away  refrain  sounded  in  his 
ears:  "There  is  nothing  love  cannot  do." 

"  Rushy,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  say  I  hain't 
made  a  livin'  for  us  all." 

"  A  livin' !  "  she  broke  in  scornfully.  "  'T  ain't 
what  I  call  a  livin' !  "  and  she  threw  a  contempt 
uous  glance  round  the  rooms.  "  A  livin' !  "  she 
repeated  tauntingly. 

"  It  ain't  what  it  used  to  be,  I  know,  Rushy," 
said  Zeph.  "  But  that  ain't  my  fault;  you  stay 
at  home  'n'  see  to  things  's  ye  used  to,  'n'  I  '11 
have  everything  comfortable  for  ye  mighty 
quick.  I  've  been  dreadful  broke  up  this  last 


86  ZEPH. 

year,  Rushy.  You  don't  keep  count  o'  the  days 
I  Ve  been  goin'  round  huntin'  you  ;  that 's  what's 
broke  up  my  work ;  'n'  then  havin'  to  sell  my 
tools." 

"  Yes,  I  do  keep  count  of  'em,  too !  "  she 
shrieked;  "you  needn't  think  I  don't!  An' 
every  time  ye  come  taggin'  on  like  a  fool  after 
me  I  hate  ye  worse;  so  you  can  put  that  'n 
your  pipe  'n'  smoke  it.  Perhaps  if  ye  'd  let  me 
alone  'n'  let  me  come  and  go  like  other  folks, 
without  spyin'  on  me,  I  should  n't  ha'  gone 
away  so  often.  But  I  'm  goin'  now,  an'  goin'  to 
stay.  This 's  the  last  night  ever  I  '11  sleep  'n 
this  house ;  you  mark  my  words !  " 

"  What  makes  ye  say  ( like  other  folks,' 
Rushy?  You  can't  fling  it  up  against  me  that 
I  hain't  tried  to  shelter  ye  from  gettin'  yer  name 
into  folks's  mouths.  There  ain't  the  livin*  man 
can  say  he  's  ever  heard  me  open  my  lips  against 
ye ;  nobody 's  ever  heard  it  from  me  that  you 
was  off;  many  'n'  many 's  the  time  I  Ve 's 


ZEPH.  87 

good  's  lied  to  keep  it  covered  up.  There 
is  n't  any  woman  was  ever  heard  of  goin'  away 
from  home  the  way  you  do,  —  leastways,  no  de 
cent  woman,"  he  muttered  in  a  bitterer  tone. 

This  last  expression  seemed  to  subdue  in 
stead  of  increasing  her  wrath.  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment  reflectively,  as  if  a  new  idea 
had  struck  her;  then  her  fury  broke  forth 
anew :  "  '  Decent  woman/  eh  !  Well,  I  call  a  de 
cent  man,  a  man  that  keeps  his  family  comfort 
able,  and  can  earn  good  wages,  and  don't  grudge 
a  woman  the  price  of  a  bonnet,  'n'  's  got  some 
pride  about  him  'n'  '11  fix  up  his  place,  'n'  not 
begin  a  house  'n'  then  let  it  stand  till  the 
timbers  rots  without  so  much  's  roofin*  it  in. 
That 's  what  I  call  'decent ; '  'n'  I  don't  call  you 
anyways  decent,  'n'  I  hain't  for  a  good  while, 
'n'  I  don't  care  who  knows  it,  I  'm  done  now ! 
I  Ve  stood  it 's  long  's  I  'm  goin'  to.  I  can  take 
care  o'  myself  'n'  the  children,  'n'  I  will !  " 

"  I  hain't   ever   made  any  objection  to  your 


ZEPH. 


earnin'  money,  Rushy,"  persisted  Zeph,  "  any 
way  you  could  do  it  here  't  home." 

"  How  's  anybody  to  get  a  thing  to  do 
down  'n  this  Flat?"  she  replied.  "  You  don't 
suppose  anybody  'd  come  down  here  to 
board?" 

"Are  you  going  to  take  boarders,  Rushy?" 
said  Zeph,  the  words  coming  slowly  from  his 
lips.  A  new  horror  was  seizing  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  ! "  she  answered  defiantly.  "  There 
's  more  money  in  that  than  anything." 

"What  're  you  goin'  to  do  for  furniture?  " 

"  The  rooms  I  Ve  took  is  ready  furnished," 
she  answered  sullenly. 

"And  the  boarders  too?"  said  Zeph,  in  a 
hard  voice.  "  I  begin  to  understand.  Ye  're 
goin'  in  with  that  Sal  Leeson,  Rushy." 

"  Well,  supposin'  I  am  ! "  she  muttered.  "  She 
's  a  good  friend  to  me,  'n'  that  's  more  than 
any  other  woman  'n  this  God-forsaken  town  's 
been !  " 


ZEPH.  89 


"  Oh,  Rushy,  Rushy !  "  groaned  Zeph.  "  They 
was  all  your  friends  once ;  everybody  liked  you 
when  we  first  come  here,  you  know  they  did. 
An'  if  we  was  to  move  away  now,  'n'  go  some- 
wheres  else,  an'  begin  over  again,  ye  'd  make 
plenty  o'  friends  anywheres.  Come,  Rushy,  let 's 
go.  I  '11  start  with  ye  anywheres  ye  say ;  we  can 
sell  out  for  money  enough  to  go  with.  Come, 
Rushy !  "  and  he  tried  to  take  her  hand  in  his. 

She  pushed  him  away  roughly,  with  a  brutal 
laugh.  "Zeph  Riker,"  she  said,  "you  're  a 
fool!  Hain't  I  tried  ye?  I  tell  ye  I'm  done. 
I  won't  never  live  with  ye  any  more,  —  never ! 
I  Ve  had  my  mind  made  up  to  that  for  longer  'n 
you  Ve  any  idea.  I  've  only  been  waitin'  to  see 
my  way  clear,  'n'  now  I  see  it,  'n'  I  'm  goin', 
'n'  you  might  's  well  quit  makin'  a  fuss !  I  'm 
goin' !  " 

"  I  forbid  ye,  Rushy,"  said  Zeph,  solemnly. 
"  I  forbid  ye !  I  'm  your  husband,  'n'  I  for 
bid  ye." 


90  ZEPH. 

"  Forbid  away !  "  she  sneered.  "  I  'm  goin'  all 
the  same." 

Zeph  left  the  house.  This  was  a  new  pass 
to  which  things  had  come.  The  tender  cur 
rents  of  yearning  affection  which  had  been  all 
day  setting  warmly  towards  his  wife  were  fast 
changing  under  her  wicked  and  cruel  words  to 
angry  and  revengeful  feeling.  He  would  talk 
no  more  with  her.  He  would  go  apart  by  him 
self  and  wrestle  with  this  new  dilemma.  What 
it  was  possible  for  him  to  do  he  did  not  clearly 
see.  Bitterly  he  wondered  within  himself  what 
a  rich  man  would  do  in  such  a  dilemma ;  if  a 
woman  threatening  such  disgrace  to  herself  and 
family  could  be  locked  up  and  guarded  like  a 
lunatic;  what  provision  the  law  made  for  such 
contingencies. 

"It  's  easy  enough  for  the  judge  to  say,  if't 
came  into  court,  that  she 's  got  to  stay  't  home ; 
but  that  won't  keep  her  there,  'n'  locks  'n'  bars 
would  n't  either,  if  she  's  made  up  her  mind  to 


ZEPH.  91 

go ;  'n'  I  can't  stay  at  home  'n'  watch  her,  nor 
pay  anybody  else  for  doin'  it  either.  Lord  have 
mercy  on  me,  now!  I  don't  see  any  way  to 
turn."  And  half  blinded  by  these  whirling, 
miserable  thoughts,  Zeph  went  on  walking, 
walking,  he  knew  not  where.  At  last  he 
turned. 

"  I  '11  go  home,"  he  said.  "  She  sha'n't  have 
it  to  say  I  did  n't  stay  with  her  to-night.  Per 
haps  I  can  bring  her  round  yet." 

But  when  he  entered  the  house  his  first 
glance  showed  him  that  she  had  not  faltered 
in  her  intention,  and  that  the  morning  would 
see  it  carried  out.  Two  boxes  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  kitchen  floor  locked  and  corded. 
Her  own  clothes  and  the  children's  had  all  been 
taken  out  of  the  closet  and  drawers.  The  steak 
lay  untouched  on  the  platter  where  he  had  left 
it.  The  basket  of  provisions  she  had  brought 
from  the  camp  was  repacked,  and  a  brown  paper 
tied  tight  over  its  top.  "  She  don't  even  mean 


92  ZEPH. 


to  get  breakfast  here,"  thought  Zeph,  as  he 
passed  through  into  the  bedroom.  The  chil 
dren  were  in  their  bed  asleep,  undressed  as 
usual.  Rushy  lay  on  the  outside  of  the  bed, 
none  of  her  clothes  removed,  her  arm  flung 
over  the  little  ones  with  an  expression  of  fierce 
protection,  which  smote  Zeph  none  the  less 
because  he  could  not  have  analyzed  the 
feeling. 

"  She  need  n't  ha*  thought  I  'd  take  'em  away 
from  her  in  their  sleep,"  he  thought.  "  What 
could  I  do  with  the  baby,  anyway,  even  if  I  was 
minded  to  steal  'em  from  her?  " 

Rushy  was  asleep  and  breathing  heavily. 
She  had  indeed  worked  hard  and  was  tired  out. 
As  Zeph  stood  looking  down  on  her  face  there 
swept  over  him  a  storm  of  memories  of  the 
early  days  of  their  acquaintance,  courtship,  and 
marriage,  —  days  when  he  was  like  a  man  tread 
ing  in  air,  so  foolish  and  fond  was  he ;  so  blind 
to  everything  except  her  beauty  and  her  fasci- 


ZEPH.  93 


nating,  bewitching  ways.  Every  reminiscence 
of  these  was  now  but  fuel  to  the  fires  that 
were  consuming  him. 

"  There  does  n't  anybody  know  any  better  'n 
I  do,"  he  said,  in  jealous  anguish,  "  what  ways 
she's  got  o'  takin'  a  man  off  his  feet.  I  don't 
blame  any  of  'em,  not  a  mite,  I  don't,  if  she 
makes  up  her  mind  to  fool  'em.  There  was  n't 
ever  the  man  born  could  stand  out  against 
her !  "  and  he  groaned. 

The  sound  awoke  Rushy.  Looking  up  at 
him  angrily,  she  exclaimed,  "  Keep  away,  can't 
ye?  Let  me  alone!" 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  touch  ye,  Rushy,"  said 
Zeph;  and  he  crossed  the  room  and  threw 
himself,  without  undressing,  on  the  outside  of 
the  bed. 

Slowly  the  night  wore  away,  Rushy  sleeping 
heavily,  as  undisturbed  as  if  no  tragedy  brooded 
over  her  home;  Zeph  lying  motionless,  with 
wide-open  eyes,  asking  himself  over  and  over 


94  ZEPH. 


and  over  again  the  bootless  question,  what  he 
should  do.  It  was  like  a  waking  nightmare,  the 
sense  of  near  catastrophe  which  weighed  on  his 
helplessness. 

Once  in  the  night  the  baby  woke  and  cried 
hoarsely.  Rushy  rose,  lighted  the  lamp,  and 
attended  lovingly  to  the  little  creature's  wants. 
As  she  was  doing  so  she  met  Zeph's  steady 
gaze  following  her  every  motion.  Her  face 
hardened  instantly  into  an  evil  and  defiant 
expression  which  cut  Zeph  to  the  quick. 

"  She  hates  me,"  he  thought.  "  That  wa'n't 
anythin'  less  than  hate,  that  look  she  had  then." 
He  was  glad  when  she  blew  out  the  light,  and 
without  speaking  threw  herself  again  on  the  bed. 

The  bedroom  windows  faced  the  east.  At 
the  first  ray  of  light  Rushy  sprang  up,  and 
rousing  the  children  began  dressing  them. 
Zeph  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  watching  her 
silently.  He  had  resolved  not  to  speak  first, 
to  simply  bide  the  issue  as  she  might  force  it 


ZEPH.  95 


upon  him.  His  continued  silence  made  her 
uneasy.  From  time  to  time  she  glanced  at  him 
apprehensively.  His  quiet,  calm  look  made 
her  anxious.  She  was  not  clear  in  her  own 
mind  what  it  meant,  nor  what  might  be  the 
extent  of  his  power  in  the  matter.  The  evil 
counsellors  with  whom  she  had  resolved  to  now 
cast  in  her  fortunes  had  warned  her  that  the 
law  would  uphold  her  husband  in  compelling 
her  to  remain  at  home,  or  in  taking  the  children 
from  her  did  he  choose  to  let  her  go. 

"  Let  him  just  try  it !  "  she  had  answered 
boastfully.  "  I  'd  like  to  see  any  man  take  my 
children  away  from  me." 

"  But  it 's  the  law,  Rushy,"  Nat  Leeson  had 
said.  To  tell  the  truth,  infatuated  as  he  was  with 
Rushy,  he  was  by  no  means  unwilling  that  the 
children  should  be  left  with  their  father. 

"  I  don't  care  if  it 's  a  hundred  laws,"  Rushy 
had  made  answer.  "I  tell  you  nobody's  goin' 
to  get  my  children  away  from  me.  I  '11  make 


96  ZEPH. 


a  good  livin'  for  'em,  'n'  no  judge  is  goin'  to  take 
'em  away  'n'  give  'em  to  Zeph  Riker  to  take 
care  of!  I  ain't  a  mite  afraid." 

But  she  was;  and  the  longer  Zeph's  silence 
lasted,  and  the  more  glances  she  stole  at  his 
calm,  resolute  face,  the  more  afraid  she  grew; 
and  it  was  with  an  almost  sinking  heart  that  at 
last,  when  she  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for 
further  delay,  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  with 
a  poor  attempt  at  bravado  in  her  tone,  "  I  'm 
going  now,  Zeph."  She  was  tying  her  bonnet- 
strings  as  she  spoke.  Her  hands  trembled. 
Zeph  saw  it. 

"  Have  n't  ye  thought  better  o'  what  ye  said 
last  night,  Rushy?  "  he  asked. 

The  gentleness  of  his  voice  and  manner  de 
ceived  her.  It  is  a  piteous  thing  to  see  how,  in 
this  life,  the  gentler  and  finer  organized  nature 
is  always  the  one  to  suffer  most  and  come  off 
vanquished  in  collisions,  and  the  coarse-grained, 
brutal  one  to  triumph. 


ZEPH.  97 


"  No,  I  hain't !  "  she  cried  in  a  harsh  tone. 
"  I  Ve  thought  better  'n'  better  of  goin'.  Ye 
poor  shiftless  thing,  ye,  I  donno  's  ye  Ve  got 
spirit  enough  to  take  care  o'  yourself,  let  alone 
taking  care  of  a  wife  an'  children !  " 

"  Ye  know  ye  're  sayin*  what 's  not  true, 
Rushy,"  said  Zeph,  gravely,  with  no  excite 
ment  in  his  manner.  "  Ye  're  only  trumpin'  up 
things  like  that  to  say  to  folks  to  keep  'em  from 
shamin'  ye  's  ye  deserve.  Ye  know  you  Ve 
had  a  good  home  with  me,  'n'  a  man  to  love 
ye  's  nobody  else  ever  '11  love  ye,  out  o'  all 
these  that's  been  foolin'  'n'  tollin'  ye  to  the 
devil." 

"  You  go  to  the  devil  yourself  then,"  cried 
Rushy,  "  'n'  don't  sit  there  talkin'  to  me  like  a 
preacher.  Look  to  home  !  If  I  was  a  mind  to 
cast  up  at  you,  I  could  do  it  fast  enough ;  but 
I  Ve  got  too  much  to  do.  Come,  Zephie,  come 
with  mam !  You  Ve  got  to  carry  the  basket, 
but  't  ain't  so  heavy 's  'twas  last  night.  There  '11 
7 


98  ZEPH. 


be  a  man  here  to  get  the  things  this  noon,"  she 
added,  turning  again  to  Zeph. 

He  did  not  heed  her.  He  was  gazing  at 
little  Zephie.  The  child  stood  looking  from  his 
mother  to  his  father,  the  tears  slowly  rolling 
down  his  cheeks.  He  was  only  ten  years  old,  but 
he  understood  too  well  the  wretched,  shameful 
scene.  It  was  not  the  first  he  had  witnessed. 

"  Come  on,  Zephie,"  said  his  mother,  moving 
towards  the  door.  The  boy  did  not  stir. 

Zeph  held  out  his  hands  to  him.  "  Stay  here 
with  pappy,"  he  said.  "  Mam  '11  come  back  per 
haps  sooner 'n  she  says.  You  stay  with  pappy." 
And  tears  which  all  Rushy's  cruelty  had  failed 
to  wring  from  Zeph's  eyes  fell  now  as  he  drew 
his  boy  close  and  folded  him  in  his  arms. 

Rushy  halted.  She  was  undecided.  "  Oh, 
well,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  tone,  affecting  to 
laugh,  "Zephie  can  stay  with  you  if  he  wants  to; 
he  '11  be  glad  enough  to  come  to  his  mammy, 
though,  when  he  's  hungry.  He  knows  where 


ZEPH.  99 


't  is.  When  you  want  some  o'  mam's  ginger 
bread,  Zephie,  you  come  down  and  get  it." 
And  without  another  look  at  her  husband  she 
left  the  house,  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

For  some  moments  Zeph  sat  like  one 
stunned.  He  had  not  really  believed  she  would 
do  it ;  or  that  it  would  be  anything  more  than 
her  previous  absences.  But  he  realized  now 
that  it  was  different;  something  had  passed, 
had  gone  forever;  a  new  gulf  had  opened  be 
tween  him  and  his  wife.  He  was  recalled  to 
himself  by  little  Zephie,  who  still  stood  be 
tween  his  knees,  softly  crying. 

"  What  makes  mam  go  away?"  he  sobbed. 

The  innocent  question  unnerved  Zeph.  He 
too  sobbed,  and  holding  the  child  convulsively 
to  his  breast,  cried :  "  I  don't  know,  Zephie ; 
something  dreadful  's  got  into  mam.  Pappy 's 
afraid  she  's  crazy;  but  perhaps  she  '11  come 
back  different." 

"  She  won't  ever  come  back,  —  not  into  this 


100  ZEPH. 


house,"  said  the  boy.     "  I  heard  her  tell  Sal  so 
last  night." 

"What  did  Sal  say?"  asked  Zeph. 

"She  said  she'd  be  just  fool  enough!"  he 
replied. 

So  these  were  the  influences  under  which 
Rushy  had  been.  He  knew  it  before,  but  the 
child's  artless  story  seemed  to  vivify  his  realiza 
tion  of  it. 

"What  did  mam  say  when  Sal  said  that?" 
asked  Zeph. 

"  I  don't  know, "  said  the  child ;  "  I  did  n't 
hear  her  say  anything.  Nat  said  —  " 

"What  did  Nat  say?"  broke  in  Zeph,  so 
fiercely  that  the  child  started. 

"  Nat  said  she  'd  have  to  come  back." 

"  He  did,  did  he?  "  muttered  Zeph. 

"Zephie,"  he  continued,  "you  an'  pappy '11 
live  together  now  till  mam  comes  home.  We  '11 
have  some  beefsteak  now  for  breakfast,  'n'.then 
pappy '11  take  you  over  to  Gammer's  to  stay 


ZEPH.  >'''>'»        '  VK  ;Voi  ' 


while  he  goes  to  work ;  'n'  you  can  go  to  school 
with  Bud;  'n'  to-night  pappy  '11  get  a  nice 
supper." 

"  Will  you  have  gingerbread?  "  asked  Zephie. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  father,  "  gingerbread  and 
apples."  And  by  some  inexplicable  mental  pro 
cess  the  very  incongruity  between  this  ques 
tion  and  answer  and  the  depth  of  misery  in  his 
breast  moved  him  to  laughter,  and  helped  him 
as  no  other  thing  just  at  that  moment  could 
have  done. 

Gammer  Stein  was  "  Gammer  "  to  the  whole 
neighborhood.  Not  a  family  in  all  the  Flat, 
or,  as  Gammer's  Missourian  tongue  called  it, 
"  Flairt,"  but  went  to  her  for  sympathy,  coun 
sel,  help,  in  the  perplexities  and  troubles  of 
their  hard-working  lives.  She  wras  the  only 
person  with  whom  Zeph  had  ever  talked  of  his 
troubles  with  his  wife.  A  great-hearted,  tire 
less,  motherly  woman,  caring  tenderly,  through 
all  her  poverty,  for  every  one,  neighbor  or 


stranger,  poorer  than  herself;  bringing  up,  in 
her  old  age,  with  the  affectionate  patience  of 
a  mother,  two  orphan  grandchildren;  bearing 
with  more  than  wifely,  almost  with  superhuman, 
good-nature  the  ill-temper  of  a  brutal  husband, 
to  whom  even  his  seventy  years  had  brought 
neither  decency  nor  moderation  of  passions,  — 
Gammer  Stein  was  one  of  those  unknown,  un 
noted  saints,  whose  lives,  unwritten  in  words, 
are  written  in  records  of  influence  as  inefface 
able,  as  eternal,  as  the  records  of  changes 
and  influences  in  the  solid  substance  of  the 
earth. 

It  was  not  a  year  after  she  arrived  in  town, 
with  the  two  little  grandsons  clinging  to  her 
skirts,  and  calling  loudly,  unceasingly,  from 
morning  till  night,  "Gammer,  Gammer!"  before 
the  whole  neighborhood  where  she  lived  had 
learned  to  echo  the  children's  name  and  the 
children's  cry;  and  it  had  so  nearly  passed  out 
of  the  memory  of  the  place  that  the  old  woman 


ZEPH.  103 

had  another  name  than  "Gammer,"  that  when,  as 
sometimes  happened,  a  stranger  asked  her  real 
name,  the  people  had  to  bethink  themselves,  to 
recall  that  "Mary,"  and  not  "  Gammer,"  was  the 
name  by  which  she  had  been  christened. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  since  Rushy  bade  her 
defiant  farewell  to  her  husband.  It  was  again 
a  cloudless  summer  Sabbath  morning,  and  the 
hush  of  the  beneficent  rest  it  had  brought 
brooded  over  all  the  working-people's  homes 
in  the  Flat.  Even  the  belated  curls  of  smoke 
seemed  to  ascend  lingeringly,  as  if  knowing 
that  on  this  day  there  was  no  hurry  about  any 
thing.  But  there  was  no  curl  of  smoke  going 
up  out  of  the  chimney  of  Zeph's  house.  More 
than  once  Gammer  Stein  had  glanced  that  way 
in  neighborly  curiosity,  and  had  thought  to 
herself,  "  Poor  fellow !  he  sleeps  late  to-day. 
It's  well  he  can." 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  and  still  no  sign 
of  life  came  from  the  house,  her  thoughts  took 


104  ZEPH. 


a  shape  of  anxiety,  and  she  said  to  her  husband, 
"  I  allow  Zeph  's  sick.  He  hain't  stirred  yit. 
Yeow  jest  go  over  'n'  see  ef  he  wants  any- 
thin'." 

"  I  allow  he  kin  run  his  sickness  hisself," 
growled  Wilhelm,  who  was  the  antipodes  of  his 
wife  in  every  one  of  the  traits  which  so  endeared 
her  to  her  neighbors.  "  I  allow  I  hain't  got  no 
call  to  go  aout  nussin'  jest  yit.  Yeow  kin  ef  yer 
want  ter.  I  allow  yer  fool  enough." 

Gammer  glanced  at  him  reproachfully.  For 
fifty  years  she  had  held  her  peace  at  such  re 
plies  as  this;  but  this  morning,  for  some  rea 
son,  her  mild  soul  was  moved  to  make  answer. 
"Ef  yer  wuz  layin'  sick  in  yer  bed  hyar,  'n' 
nobody  ter  come  nigh  yer,  I  allow  Zeph  'd 
be  ther  fust  one  as  'ud  be  lookin'  arter  yer;  I 
allow  he  would.  He 's  all  alone  thar.  The 
boy  's  ben  these  two  days  daown  't  his  mother's. 
I  seed  't  was  cuttin'  inter  Zeph,  the  little  feller's 
goin'  off  ter  her.  I  would  n't  wonder  a  mite  ef 


ZEPH.  105 


Zeph  hed  gone  killed  hisself.  He  's  sed  more 
'n  once  he  bleeved  she'd  drive  him  t'  it;  V  I 
see  him  sharpenin'  a  big  knife  'n  aour  grind 
stone.  Thet  wuz  last  Wednesday ;  no,  't  wuz 
Toosday.  I  wuz  ironin',  'n'  sez  I,  jest  careless, 
'What  yer  sharpenin'  't  so  sharp  fur,  Zeph?' 
'n'  he  sez,  sez  he,  *  I  ain't  gwine  ter  cut  my 
throat,  Gammer,  yit,  never  yeow  be  afeerd ; ' 
jest  's  ef  he  seen  I  wuz  thinkin' ;  'n'  I  sez  ter 
him,  '  Naow,  Zeph,  ef  yeow  Ve  hed  a  hell  'n 
this  life,  yeow  don't  want  ter  go  right  straight 
inter  anuther  wuss  one,  dew  yer?  An'  I 
allow  ef  yer  go  'n'  murder  yeourself,  ye  '11  jest 
go  right  straight  inter  torment  thar  won't  be 
no  gettin'  shet  of,  never!'  I  jest  spoke  plain 
ter  him." 

"  I  sh'd  think  ser,"  growled  Wilhelm ;  "  allers 
a  meddlin'  in  business  't  ain't  any  o'  yeourn.  I 
allow  't  ain't  nothin'  ter  yeow  ef  Zeph  Riker 
cuts  his  throat  ef  he  wants  ter." 

"I  allow  'tis,"  continued  Gammer,  placidly; 


106  ZEPH. 

"  I  allow  he 's  my  brother,  accordin'  to  Scriptur' ; 
thar  ain't  nobody  gwine  to  kill  hisself  thet  I 
knows  on,  ef  I  kin  hender  him." 

The  words  had  hardly  passed  her  lips,  when 
a  sharp  cry,  "  Gammer,  Gammer !  "  came  from 
the  front  of  the  house.  Both  Gammer  and 
Wilhelm  sprang  to  their  feet. 

"  That 's  Zephie,"  exclaimed  Gammer,  as  she 
ran  to  the  door.  Little  Zephie  was  running  by 
at  the  top  of  his  speed.  As  he  passed,  he 
shrieked,  "  Nat 's  cut  pappy  all  ter  pieces  ! 
He's  bleedin'!  The  men's  bringin'  him." 

Horror-stricken,  Gammer  followed  the  child, 
and  overtook  him  as  he  was  vainly  trying  with 
his  trembling  little  fingers  to  fit  the  key  into 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  hurry,  hurry  !  "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  Gam 
mer,  get  the  door  open  !  Pappy  told  me  to 
run  V  git  his  bed  ready." 

"  He 's  alive,  then  ?  "  gasped  Gammer. 

"  Yes,  he 's  alive,"  sobbed  Zephie,  "  but  he  's 


ZEPH.  lO/ 


bleedin' ;  his  face  's  all  cut.  Oh,  Gammer,  Gam 
mer,  when  I  'm  a  man  I  '11  kill  Nat !  " 

"  Hush,  child !  naow  don't  yeow  talk  thet 
way ;  tew  killin's  is  wuss  'n  one !  It 's  all  mur 
der,"  said  Gammer,  moving  about  the  rooms 
distractedly,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  as 
she  heard  the  steady  tramp  of  men's  feet  near- 
ing  the  house. 

It  was  a  ghastly  burden  they  brought,  a 
ghastly  story  they  had  to  tell.  After  they  had 
made  the  wounded  man  as  comfortable  as  it 
was  possible  to  make  him  with  the  scanty 
accommodations  at  hand,  the  doctor  drew  Gam 
mer  aside  and  told  her  the  tale. 

It  seemed  that  Zeph,  poor  fellow,  had  not 
been  able  to  keep  away  from  the  house  where 
his  wife  was  living.  Not  only  did  he  yearn  for 
the  sight  of  her  face  and  the  baby's,  but  he  had 
a  foolish  notion  that  his  being  occasionally  seen 
there  would  be  a  shelter  to  her  reputation.  He 
had  even  said,  with  incredible  magnanimity,  to 


108  ZEPH. 


Sal  Leeson,  who  reluctantly  bore  that  much  of 
testimony  to  his  goodness,  "  It 's  all  against  my 
will,  Rushy  's  bein'  here ;  but  so  long  's  she  's 
my  wife,  'n'  's  got  my  children  along  with  her, 
it's  better  for  all  round  that  I  should  be  here 
some  o'  the  time,  whether  she  wants  me  or 
not !  " 

The  evil-doers,  men  and  women,  who  con 
sorted  in  the  place,  had  been  more  than  once 
shamed  and  sobered  and  finally  driven  out  of 
Rushy's  room  by  the  sight  of  the  silent,  sad- 
faced  man  whose  name  she  had  so  dishonored. 
It  was  incredible  that  he  could  have  borne  it. 
But  he  did ;  and  it  had  become  evident  that  if 
Rushy  was  insensible  to  his  presence,  others 
were  not,  and  a  new  feeling  of  respect  and 
sympathy  for  Zeph  had  arisen,  even  in  the 
minds  of  those  previously  most  hostile  to  him. 
Nat  himself  had  been  sometimes  shamed  into 
withdrawing  from  the  stern,  silent  gaze  of  the 
injured  husband.  Encouraged  by  these  signs 


ZEPH.  IOQ 


that  the  man  was  not  wholly  insensible  to  dis 
grace,  Zeph  had  resolved  to  make  one  effort  to 
reason  with  him,  and  had  timed  this  remon 
strance  unluckily,  addressing  him  when  he  was 
sufficiently  under  the  influence  of  liquor  to  be 
savagely  irritable.  It  was  late  on  Saturday 
evening.  As  Nat  entered  Rushy' s  kitchen  with 
the  easy  familiarity  of  one  privileged,  Zeph, 
who  had  been  waiting  for  him  to  come  in,  rose, 
and  said,  "  Nat,  I  owe  all  my  troubles  with  my 
wife  to  you.  If  it  was  n't  for  you  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Seizing  a 
carving-knife  which  lay  on  the  table,  Nat  sprang 
on  him  like  a  tiger.  Zeph,  wholly  unarmed, 
caught  up  a  chair  to  ward  off  the  blows,  and  one 
swift,  terrible  second  saw  the  two  men  wrestling 
in  a  life-and-death  fight.  Stretched  from  one 
corner  to  the  other  of  the  room  was  a  line  on 
which  Rushy  had  towels  and  small  articles  hung 
airing  after  the  wash.  The  chair  with  which 
Zeph  was  hitting  out  blindly  caught  in  this 


1 10  ZEPH, 


line,  throwing  him  to  the  floor;  and  that  was 
the  last  he  knew  till,  coming  vaguely  to  his 
senses,  he  heard  voices  above  him:  one,  his 
wife's,  angry,  hard,  —  how  it  smote  him! — "I 
tell  you  he  sha'n't  stay  here !  I  Ve  left  him ! 
I  won't  have  him  laid  on  that  bed !  He  's  no 
business  here,  any  way !  " 

Zeph  opened  his  eyes.  Opposite  him  was 
Nat,  raging,  swearing,  held  firm  by  two  po 
licemen,  who  were  dragging  him  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Why  did  n't  ye  let  me  alone  till  I  'd  finished 
my  job?"  he  bellowed,  like  a  wild  beast  in  his 
fury,  Rushy,  one  hand  on  his  arm,  one  on  his 
mouth,  vainly  striving  to  check  him  from 
incriminating  himself  further. 

Zeph  closed  his  eyes  at  the  harrowing  sight. 
Yes ;  why  had  they  not  let  Nat  finish  his  job ! 
How  much  better  it  would  have  been !  What 
a  release  from  misery ! 

Then    he    heard   a   voice   saying    angrily   to 


ZEPH.  1 1 1 

Rushy,  —  it  was  the  doctor,  —  "I  don't  care 
who  he  is  or  what  he  is,  he  has  got  to  be  laid 
on  that  bed,  I  tell  you  !  Are  you  a  woman,  or 
a  devil?  Stand  out  of  the  way!"  And  then 
Zeph  felt  himself  lifted  and  borne,  and  a  buzz 
of  murmuring  voices,  and  sharp  stinging  pains 
in  his  cheek  and  throat;  and  then  he  sank  away 
and  knew  no  more  until  in  the  night,  when  he 
waked  again  to  himself,  and  all  was  still,  no 
sound  except  the  loud  ticking  of  a  clock ;  and 
some  man  sitting  by  him,  a  stranger,  said  in  a 
not  unkind  voice,  "  Hey  !  'wake,  are  ye?  Want 
anything?"  and  Zeph  had  said  feebly,  "  Water," 
and  had  tried  to  ask  for  Rushy,  but  the  words 
would  not  form  themselves ;  and  while  he  was 
struggling  to  speak  them,  he  floated  off,  he 
thought,  on  a  big  white  cloud,  and  the  air  was 
full  of  the  sound  of  bells  ringing,  and  he  remem 
bered  that  it  must  be  Sunday,  and  opened  his 
eyes  again,  and  saw  the  broad  daylight  stream 
ing  into  the  room,  and  the  doctor  standing  in 


112  ZEPH. 


the  doorway,  and  men's  heads  rising  one  behind 
the  other,  and  the  doctor's  voice  again,  angry 
and  indignant,  reasoning  with  Rushy.  Could 
those  tones  be  Rushy's,  and  those  cruel  words? 
Yes,  it  was  Rushy,  saying  in  a  shrill  voice,  "  I 
don't  care !  I  tell  ye  I  won't  have  him  here. 
He  's  brought  me  trouble  enough  a' ready ;  an' 
now  he  's  got  Nat  into  prison,  'n'  I  don't  care 
what  becomes  of  him.  'T  was  all  his  fault. 
He  begun  the  fight,  aggravatin'  Nat.  Nat  never 
spoke  the  first  word." 

And  above  all  the  confused  and  struggling 
sounds  of  the  excited  voices  still  pealed  on  the 
church-bells;  and  at  the  sound  Zeph's  brain 
seemed  suddenly  to  clear  itself,  and  strength  to 
come  back  to  him ;  and  half  raising  himself  in 
the  bed,  he  spoke  aloud :  "  Say,  doctor,  let 
them  carry  me  home ;  I  'd  rather  go.  JT  'won't 
hurt  me.  I  ain't  very  bad  hurt,  am  I?" 

A  hush  fell  on  the  group  of  excited  talkers. 
They  had  thought  him  asleep. 


ZEPH.  113 


"  No,  you  're  not  very  bad  hurt,"  said  trie 
doctor,  coming  to  the  bedside  and  feeling  his 
pulse.  "  I  don't  suppose  it'll  do  you  any  hurt 
to  be  carried  over  to  your  house.  But  you  Ve 
got  an  ugly  cut  in  your  face,  came  mighty  near 
being  your  throat,  and  it'll  need  watching  for 
a  few  days,  two  weeks  maybe.  You  Ve  got  to 
be  tended  pretty  close.  You  can't  be  left  all 
alone  in  the  house."  And  the  doctor  glanced 
wrathfully  at  Rushy,  who  stood  silent,  sullen, 
looking  down  on  the  floor. 

"  I  '11  manage  that,  doctor,"  said  Zeph,  cheer 
fully,  "  if  you  '11  just  get  me  home.  My  boy  '11 
go  with  me,  I  guess ;  he 's  there  'most  o'  the 
time.  I  '11  have  to  keep  him  out  of  school  a 
few  days,  but  after  that  I  '11  do  for  myself.  I  Ve 
got  good  neighbors  out  there." 

All  this  time  Rushy  spoke  no  word,  but  her 

face  grew  harder  and  darker  with  every  syllable 

that  fell  from  her  husband's  lips.     She  saw  how 

his  words  were  telling  against  her.    Even  her  evil 

8 


114  ZEPH. 

comrade,  Sal  Leeson,  bent  almost  compassion 
ately  over  the  bed  and  wiped  Zeph's  forehead 
as  he  spoke. 

"  I  say,  Rushy,"  she  muttered,  "  you  might 
let  him  stay  just  a  few  days;  I  '11  look  after 
him." 

Before  Rushy  could  reply,  Zeph  cried  out, 
"No,  no!  I  tell  you  I  won't  stay.  Doctor, 
it  'ud  kill  me  to  stay,"  he  continued  plead 
ingly.  "  Oh,  get  me  out  o'  here  's  quick  's 
you  can ! " 

They  were  all  rough  men  who  were  standing 
there  ready  to  give  what  help  might  be  in  their 
power,  but  there  was  not  a  man  among  them 
whose  pulses  did  not  beat  quicker  at  this  cry 
of  Zeph's.  They  lifted  him  in  their,  arms  ten 
derly,  as  if  he  had  been  a  helpless  woman, 
and  many  a  resentful  glance  was  shot  back 
at  the  unfeeling  wife,  who  neither  moved  nor 
spoke  as  her  husband  was  borne  out  of  the 
house. 


ZEPH.  115 


11  Good-by,  Rushy,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  awful 
sorry  to  have  got  ye  into  this  trouble.  But 
ye  know  't  wan't  any  o'  my  doin',  Rushy.  Ye 
know  't  wan't.  Say  good-by  to  me,  Rushy. 
P'raps  I  '11  never  see  ye  again." 

"  Good-by,"  she  said  sullenly,  without  look 
ing  up.  In  league  and  fast  bound  with  malig 
nant  spirits,  surely,  must  Rushy  Riker's  heart 
have  been,  to  have  resisted  the  appeal  of  that 
moment.  Even  Sal  Leeson  was  crying;  but 
Rushy's  eyes  glittered  hard  and  dry  with  an 
evil  light.  Her  guilty  and  passionate  heart  was 
full  of  terror  for  Nat.  She  had  overheard  one 
of  the  policemen  say,  as  they  dragged  him  off 
after  the  fray,  "  You  '11  swing  for  this  night's 
work,  Nat  Leeson ;  "  and  Nat,  frantic  in  his  fury, 
had  replied,  "  Swing  and  be  damned  !  If  you  'd 
let  me  alone  a  minute  longer,  I  'd  have  finished 
him !  " 

Rushy  knew  only  too  well  that  if  Zeph  was 
to  die  of  his  hurts,  these  reckless  words  of  Nat's 


ZEPH. 


would  carry  terrible  weight  against  him  in  the 
trial  for  murder  which  must  follow.  Her  whole 
nature  was  on  fire  with  apprehensions,  wild  and 
bootless  plottings  and  plannings,  and  over  and 
above  all  raged  an  unreasoning  anger  against 
her  husband  for  having  been  the  occasion  of 
such  danger  to  Nat. 

"  If  worst  comes  to  worst,  I  '11  swear  him  out 
myself,"  said  the  wretched  woman.  "  I  '11  swear 
Zeph  set  on  him  with  the  knife  first.  'Twas 
just  the  same  's  a  knife,  the  words  he  used. 
They  just  made  Nat  crazy." 

The  jail  was  in  full  sight  from  her  door:  a 
square,  stone  building  with  grated  windows,  at 
the  back  a  high  fence  surrounding  an  enclosure 
in  which  a  man  had  been  hung  only  a  few 
months  previous,  —  hung  for  a  murder  com 
mitted  in  a  sudden  fray  not  unlike  this  one 
between  her  husband  and  Nat.  As  Rushy 
recalled  the  day  of  this  hanging  and  the  crowd 
of  men  and  women  she  had  seen  outside  the 


ZEPH.  117 

fence  eagerly  striving,  like  wild  beasts  athirst 
for  blood,  to  look  through  cracks  in  the  fence, 
to  climb  up  and  see  over,  her  heart  sickened 
within  her;  clenching  her  fist,  she  shook  it 
toward  the  jail  and  muttered:  "They  sha'n't 
ever  hang  Nat.  I  '11  burn  the  place  down  over 
their  heads  first.  If  't  is  stone  I  '11  fire  it  some 
how,  or  I  '11  get  him  poison !  They  sha'n't 
hang  him !  " 

The  church  in  which  Zeph  had  listened  two 
weeks  before  to  the  sermon  on  forgiveness 
stood  only  a  few  rods  from  Rushy's  house.  As 
the  men  were  carrying  him  past  the  door  the 
choir  had  just  begun  the  singing  of  the  first 
hymn. 

"Stop  a  minute,  can't  ye?"  whispered  Zeph. 
"  It  jars  me  awful,  bein'  carried ;  just  rest  a 
minute  here  'n  this  shade."  He  would  not 
confess  that  it  was  for  sake  of  the  singing  that 
he  wished  to  stop.  With  closed  eyes  he  lay 
listening.  He  could  not  hear  the  words,  but 


Il8  ZEPH. 


the  tune  was  one  of  the  sweet  old-fashioned 
ones  he  had  heard  sung  when  he  was  a  child ; 
and  there  were  words  echoing  in  his  thoughts 
which  seemed  to  fit  strangely  into  its  rhythm, 
—  words  echoing  yet  in  the  air,  though  it  was 
now  fourteen  days  since  their  syllables  had 
been  spoken :  "  Yea,  I  say  unto  you,  until 
seventy  times  seven." 

"  I  don't  know  what 's  got  into  me,"  thought 
Zeph,  "  to  be  so  haunted  like  by  them  words. 
I  don't  lay  no  claim  to  bein'  a  Christian,  V 
I'd  just  as  soon  kill  that  Nat  this  minute  's 
I  would  a  pizen  snake;  but  I  can't  get  free 
from  them  words." 


ZEPH. 


IV. 


DURING  these  two  weeks  which  had  brought 
such  tragedy  into  Zeph's  life  the  memory  of 
him  and  his  troubles  had  by  no  means  died  out 
of  Miss  Sophy's  mind.  She  found  herself  re 
verting  with  strange  persistency  to  the  trains 
of  unwonted  thought  awakened  within  her  by 
his  inexplicable  devotion  to  his  unworthy  wife. 
The  more  she  thought,  the  surer  she  became 
that  the  man  had  done  only  what  she  herself 
would  have  done  in  similar  circumstances.  "'For 
better,  for  worse,'  "  she  repeated.  "  That  does 
n't  mean  but  one  thing ;  there  are  n't  any  two 
ways  o'  readin'  or  sayin'  such  plain  words  as  that ! 
An'  it  's  f  worse'  he  's  got,  no  mistake.  But  I  'm 
as  sure  's  I  'm  alive,  that  there  ain't  many  men 
would  take  it  the  way  he  does ;  it  's  more  the 


120  ZEPH. 

way  a  woman  'ud  do.  Strange,  too;  such  a 
great  strong  man  's  he  is !  six  foot  if  he  's  an 
inch,  —  I  'd  have  thought  he  'd  made  short 
work  o'  any  man  that  came  foolin'  round  his 
wife.  I  '11  go  up  'n'  see  how  he  's  gettin'  along 
to-morrow." 

But  times  were  busy  with  Miss  Sophy.  Mid 
summer  brought  crowds  of  travellers  to  Pendar 
Basin,  and  the  reputation  of  Miss  Sophy's  good 
table  was  so  wide  that  her  doors  were  besieged 
with  applicants  for  board.  She  had  to  turn  them 
away  by  dozens,  much  to  the  distress  of  her 
thrifty  soul ;  but,  as  she  curtly  remarked  some 
times  to  those  who  wearied  her  by  importunities, 
"  Four  walls  is  four  walls,  'n'  ye  can't  make  'em 
any  bigger.  It  's  more  for  my  interest  to  take 
ye  than  't  is  for  yours  to  come,  but  I  have  n't  got 
so  much  as  room  for  a  shake-down  left;  that  's 
the  truth." 

In  addition   to  this   inroad  of  boarders,  Miss 
Sophy  had  other  perplexities  on  her  mind;  one 


ZEPH.  121 

of  her  wise  and  long-seeing  measures  had  been 
the  purchase  of  a  small  ranch,  a  few  miles 
from  town,  where  she  raised  vegetables  and 
kept  poultry  and  cows.  Until  this  summer  the 
scheme  had  worked  well;  the  ranch,  in  the 
hands  of  a  faithful  Swede  and  his  wife,  yielding 
her  a  profit  on  the  investment,  and  contributing 
no  small  share  to  the  fame  of  her  house.  She 
had  called  the  ranch  "  Greenhills,"  partly  in 
affection  for  her  old  Vermont  home,  partly  be 
cause  the  house  stood  in  a  little  park-like  open, 
surrounded  by  low  hills  which  had  springs  in 
them,  and  were  consequently  green  when  the 
rest  of  the  plains  around  were  sere  and  brown. 
Greenhills  butter  and  Greenhills  poultry,  when 
ever  there  was  any  surplus  above  Miss  Sophy's 
own  needs,  brought  fancy  prices  in  market ;  and 
the  sole  air-castle  Miss  Sophy  had,  was  the 
vision  of  the  time  when  she  would  have  money 
enough  put  away  in  the  bank  and  on  loans  to 
make  it  safe  for  her  to  give  up  keeping  boarders 


122  ZEPH. 

and  live  at  Greenhills.  And  it  was  Greenhills 
she  had  in  her  thoughts  on  that  evening  when 
Zeph  knocked  at  her  kitchen  door,  and  she  had 
with  a  hasty  impulse,  so  unlike  her  usual  cir 
cumspection,  told  him  she  could  give  him  work. 
Something  in  Zeph's  eyes  inspired  her  with  sud 
den  and  entire  confidence  in  him,  and  she  would 
then  and  there  have  taken  him  into  her  employ, 
had  he  been  so  minded;  she  was  near  at  her 
wits'  end  with  the  miserable  and  dishonest  fel 
lows  she  had  employed  on  the  place  since  the 
Swede  had  gone  away  in  the  spring.  Bitten 
by  the  mining  craze,  of  which  there  had  been  a 
fresh  outburst  in  the  region,  he  had  left  her, 
with  only  a  week's  warning,  in  the  midst  of  the 
spring  planting,  and  everything  had  seemed  to 
be  going  from  bad  to  worse  ever  since. 

"  If  I  could  just  get  that  Zeph  up  there  to 
overlook  things !  I  believe  he  's  as  honest  's  a 
Newfoundland  dog,"  said  Miss  Sophy.  And  it 
was,  after  all,  not  wholly  philanthropy  which 


ZEPH.  123 

made  her,  on  the  very  Sunday  afternoon  after 
Zeph's  fray  with  Nat,  turn  her  steps  once  more 
towards  his  house.  With  her  usual  straightfor 
wardness  she  was  going  directly  to  him  to  offer 
him  the  situation.  "  An'  if  that  wife  o'  his  is  in 
the  house,"  said  the  resolute  Miss  Sophy,  "  I 
sha'n't  mince  any  words  with  her.  I  shall  just 
tell  her  it  's  her  husband  I  want,  an'  not  her, 
V  she  won't  be  allowed  to  set  her  foot  on  the 
place.  If  he's  fool  enough  to  come  home  to 
her  Sundays  he  can."  From  which  it  is  plain 
to  be  seen,  that,  spite  of  her  tender  meditations 
on  the  solemn  words  of  the  marriage  service, 
and  on  the  touching  faithfulness  of  Zeph  to  his 
erring  wife,  Miss  Sophy  was  not  quite  sound  in 
the  practical  application  of  the  doctrine. 

But  Providence  intervened  to  save  her  the 
shock  of  being  suddenly  confronted  by  the  spec 
tacle  of  the  wounded,  helpless  Zeph.  As  she 
crossed  the  open  in  front  of  his  house,  Gammer 
Stein's  sharp  eyes  spied  her.  Gammer  was 


124  ZEPff. 


keeping  the  Sabbath  in  her  wonted  fashion,  by 
taking  in  vigorous  hand  the  bodies  of  her  grand 
children.  Cleanliness,  in  her  creed,  took  place 
of  all  especial  observance  of  conventional  godli 
ness  on  the  seventh  day ;  and  a  terrible  day  it 
made  of  it  for  Bud  and  Tim.  No  possible  Sun 
day  purgatory  of  hard  benches  and  long  ser 
mons,  as  experienced  by  the  children  of  more 
Orthodox  parents,  could  have  compared  in  terror 
with  the  Sunday  scrubbings  and  combings  to 
Gammer  Stein's  grandchildren.  The  foreshadow 
ing  gloom  of  it  fell  on  them  of  a  Saturday,  and 
the  smart  and  tingle  of  it  lasted  all  day  Mon 
day,  and  longer. 

It  was  at  a  lucky  crisis  for  Bud  that  Miss 
Sophy  appeared  on  the  scene.  The  six  days' 
tangle  of  his  hair  had  proved  too  much  both 
for  his  grandmother's  patience  and  his  own,  and 
he  had  just  broken  into  loud  crying,  and  she 
into  something  as  near  scolding  as  her  placid 
nature  ever  reached,  when,  suddenly  throwing 


ZEPH.  125 

combs,  brushes,  scissors,  all  to  the  floor,  the 
old  lady  cried,  "Thar  she  goes  now!  Wall,  ef 
thet  ain't  cur'us  !  "  And  without  another  word 
she  ran  out  of  the  house,  waving  her  arms  and 
calling  aloud :  "  Hyar  !  Miss  Burr  !  Yeow  hyar ! 
Don't  yer  go  nigh  ther  house.  Yeow  wait  tell 
I  kin  come  up  ter  ye." 

Miss  Sophy,  surprised,  and,  if  the  truth  were 
told,  not  wholly  pleased,  stood  still,  as  admon 
ished,  till  Gammer  reached  her,  and  then  coolly 
waited  for  her  to  speak.  Nothing  daunted, 
Gammer  gasped  breathlessly,  "I  allowed  ye 
wuz  gwine  ter  Zeph's,  want  yer?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Wall,  I  allowed  ye  wuz,  'n'  I  jest  dropped 
everythin'.  I  wuz  er  grapplin'  wi'  Bud's  hair; 
it's  somethin'  orful,  Bud's  hair  ez:  V  I  jest 
throwed  the  combs  daown  'n'  run  ter  tell  yer 
not  ter  go  nigh  ther  haouse."  And  Gammer 
stopped  for  want  of  breath. 

"  Why  not?"  exclaimed  Miss  Sophy,  curiosity 


126  ZEPH. 

getting  the  better  of  her  reserve.    "  What's  hap 
pened?     Who's  sick?" 

"T ain't  no  sickness,  it's  wuss !  "  replied 
Gammer,  sententiously.  "  It  's  wuss  'n  any 
sickness.  Thet  Nat's  cut  Zeph  all  ter  pieces, 
'n'  he 's  layin'  thar ;  the  doctor 's  in  thar  naow, — 
the  city  doctor;  pore  folks  hez  ter  hev  him, 
yer  know.  I  allow  he  don't  know  much; 
Zeph  wuz  bleedin'  orful  when  they  brung  him 
over;  I  wuz  thar.  I  never  seed  sech  a  sight, 
'n'  I  don't  never  want  ter.  I  allow  he  '11  die, 
sure." 

"  Cut  to  pieces !  "  interrupted  Miss  Sophy. 
"What  do  you  mean?  He  can't  be  cut  to 
pieces!  Is  she  in  there?  Did  he  find  her? 
Who's  takin'  care  o'  him?" 

"  Well,  it  ez  in  his  face  'n'  jaw,  mostly,"  re 
plied  Gammer;  "  he  ain't  cut  nowhar's  else; 
'n'  ther  doctor  sez  when  his  beard  's  growed  out 
agen  full,  't  won't  show  none.  The  doctor,  he 
allowed  ez  he  would  n't  ha'  lied  sech  a  cut  's 


ZEPH.  127 


thet  not  fur  no  woman  livin' ;  he  allowed  he 
would  n't." 

It  was  of  no  use  to  attempt  to  direct  courses 
and  channels  of  narrative  in  Gammer  Stein's 
mouth;  once  launched,  she  was  as  unmanage 
able  as  a  rudderless  boat,  and  veered  wildly 
from  past  to  present,  from  actual  to  hypotheti 
cal,  from  descriptive  to  didactic,  according  to 
the  quarter  from  which  each  sudden  reminis 
cence  and  emotion  struck  her.  After  one  or 
two  vain  attempts  to  interpolate  questions  or 
get  some  consecutive  order  of  statement,  Miss 
Sophy  abandoned  all  such  efforts  and  pa 
tiently  listened,  and  in  the  course  of  half  an 
hour  was  in  possession* of  the  substantial  facts 
of  the  case. 

Two  scarlet  spots  glowed  on  her  cheeks.  "  It 
is  the  most  shameful  thing  I  ever  heard !  "  she 
cried,  when  at  length  Gammer  paused. 

"Ain't  it?"  said  Gammer.  "Ain't  she  jest 
a  disgrace  ter  ther  whole  on  us?  I  allow  thar 


128  ZEPH. 


ain't  no  hell,  wharever  't  is  ner  whatsomeever 
it 's  made  outer,  thet  's  bad  enough  fur  sech  's 
her." 

"  I  'm  goin'  in  to  see  him,"  said  Miss  Sophy, 
firmly. 

"  Yer  ain't,  though,  be  yer?"  said  Gammer. 
"  Be  yer  reel  steady  headed  ?  He  looks 
orful." 

"  I  'm  goin'  in,"  repeated  Miss  Sophy.  "  He  's 
got  to  be  looked  after.  I  shall  ask  the  doctor 
what  he  ought  to  have  to  eat." 

"  I  allow  I  '11  go  'long  tew,"  said  Gammer. 
"Tew's  better  'n  one."  And  she  accompanied 
Miss  Sophy  to  the  door.  As  they  reached  it, 
the  doctor  came  out. 

"  Ah  !  Ah,  Miss  Burr,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
relief,  "  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  here.  How  did 
you  hear  of  it?  The  man  is  badly  hurt,  but 
he  will  pull  through  if  he  can  be  kept  quiet. 
He  wants  nursing,  though." 

Miss  Sophy  nodded.     "  Yes,  I  should  think 


ZEPH.  129 

he  did,"  she  said  in  a  wrathful  tone.     "  I  sup 
pose  that  good-for-nothing  wife  of  his  —  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  her !  "  broke  in  the  doctor. 
"  She  's  a  regular  she-devil !  If  she  shows  her 
face  here,  I  '11  have  her  arrested.  He 's  better 
alone,  than  with  her  round.  She  won't  come, 
anyhow;  she  's  left  him." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Miss  Sophy,  with  something 
between  a  snort  and  a  sob.  "  Good  riddance ! 
I  should  say." 

"  The  little  chap 's  very  handy,"  continued  the 
doctor,  "  and  he  seems  fond  of  his  father.  I  Ve 
showed  him  how  to  keep  the  bandages  wet; 
he  must  n't  swallow  anything  but  liquids  for  a 
good  many  days,  —  only  milk  at  first.  In  a  day 
or  two,  if  you  can  give  him  some  of  your  good 
soups,  Miss  Burr,  that  will  be  all  he  will  need. 
He  '11  pull  through.  It  is  a  close  shave ;  but  the 
man 's  got  the  constitution  of  an  ox." 

"  I  '11  see  he  has  the  soups,  doctor,"  said  Miss 
Sophy,  turning  away. 

9 


130  ZEPH. 

"  Ain't  yer  gwine  in?"  cried  Gammer,  disap 
pointed.  "  Yer  said  ye  wuz  gwine  in.  I  allow  't 
w'ud  be  good  fur  him  ter  know  he  'd  got  some 
friends  more  'n  he  'd  knowed  on." 

Miss  Sophy  hesitated.  A  sudden  repugnance 
had  seized  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  not  to-day.  I  '11  be  up 
again  to-morrow.  You  can  tell  him  I  was  here, 
and  that  I  '11  look  after  him.  He  need  n't  give 
himself  one  mite  of  uneasiness  about  food.  I  '11 
see  that  he  'n'  the  boy  have  all  they  need. 
I  '11  look  after  'em." 

"Then  I  allaow  they'll  be  looked  arter,"  said 
Gammer.  "  Anybody  'd  know  jest  by  ther 
way  yer  step  aout  yer  hed  n't  no  slouch  abaout 
yeow!  Yer  powerful  active,  yer  air,  fur  a 
woman  er  yeour  build.  It 's  cur'us  naow  what 
tuk  Zeph  ter  yeour  door  thet  night,  ain't  it? 
He  hain't  hed  much  luck,  but  thet  wuz  luck;  I 
allow  ter  yeou,  looks  like  'twuz  !  Good  day  t' 
ye,  good  day !  I  allaow  thet  Bud  's  got  hes 


ZEPH.  131 

hair  inter  a  wuss  snarl  'n  'twuz  afore,  while 
we  Ve  been  talkin'.  Ez  soon  's  I  Ve  got  through 
cleanin'  him  up  I  shell  go  inter  Zeph's  'n' 
straighten  aout  things  thar." 

Miss  Sophy  went  home  like  one  walking  in  a 
dream  of  horror.  In  the  whole  course  of  her 
placid  thirty-five  years  no  such  glimpse  as  this 
of  the  dark  side  of  human  life  and  human 
nature  had  ever  reached  her.  The  currents  of 
existence  in  her  native  village  were  always  as 
smooth  as  they  were  dull ;  no  crime  had  ever 
been  committed  there,  neither  did  any  of  the 
great  daily  newspapers  come  into  the  place 
with  its  record  of  the  wretched  iniquities  of 
the  outside  world.  Vaguely  Miss  Sophy  knew 
that  such  things  were,  as  she  knew  that  there 
were  volcanic  eruptions  and  cyclones;  but  to 
find  herself  thus  face  to  face  with,  in  fact  almost 
involved  in,  one  of  the  most  dreadful  of  all 
human  tragedies,  stunned  her. 

"  Right  here  in  Pendar  Basin,  too,"  she  said 


132  ZEPH. 

to  herself,  "  in  this  little  village,  and  'mongst 
workin'  folks,  too;  I  declare  it's  awful!  I 
don't  like  bein'  mixed  up  in  it,  anyhow.  It 
don't  seem  decent  to  even  know  about  it.  But 
somebody  5s  got  to  look  after  that  man,  that 's 
certain ;  'n'  I  'd  rather  do  it  myself  without  any 
help  than  go  'n'  tell  anybody  such  a  story  's 
that.  I  'd  bite  my  tongue  off  first." 

And  so  with  a  grim  repression  which  cost 
Miss  Sophy  a  dear  expenditure  of  nerve  force 
in  the  self-restraint  it  involved,  she  went  about 
her  business  and  said  not  a  word  to  any  one  of 
her  ministrations  to  the  wounded  man.  It  was 
not  till  the  fourth  day  that  she  nerved  herself 
up  to  accompany  Gammer  to  his  bedside.  The 
sight  overcame  her,  and  routed  her  last  vestige 
of  cowardly  unwillingness  to  an  open  responsi 
bility  about  the  case. 

"I  don't  care  what  's  to  be  said,"  she  ex 
claimed,  " nor  who's  mixed  up  in  it;  that  man 
ain't  goin'  to  lie  another  day  in  that  hole.  I  'm 


ZEPH.  133 


goin'  to  have  him  moved  right  out  to  Green- 
hills  and  taken  care  of  decent.  I  can  drive 
out  there  every  day  'n'  see  to  him.  I  do  go 
out  pretty  near  every  day  's  't  is ;  'n'  the  air  out 
there  '11  half  cure  him.  Why,  the  flies  'n  that 
room  o'  his  are  enough  to  kill  him, — just  the 
flies  alone  !  There  ain't  a  window  nor  a  door 
out  to  Greenhills  that  has  n't  got  mosquito  net 
in  it." 

"Yer  don't  mean  it,  dew  yer?"  exclaimed 
Gammer  Stein,  taken  all  aback  at  the  sug 
gestion. 

"I  do,  too  !  "  cried  Miss  Sophy.  "  I  'm  going 
to  the  doctor  this  minute  to  ask  him  if  he  's  got 
anything  to  say  against  it." 

"  I  dunno  's  Zeph  ud  be  willin',"  began  Gam 
mer,  hesitatingly.  "I  allow -7-" 

"  He  '11  go  if  I  come  for  him,"  interrupted 
Miss  Sophy,  impatiently.  "  He  is  n't  a  fool,  — 
that  is,  not  in  everything,"  she  added  testily. 
"  I  want  him  out  there  to  work  's  soon  's  he 's 


134  ZEPH. 


able,  'n'  he  '11  be  right   there  to  begin."     And 
Miss  Sophy  was  off. 

In  an  hour  she  was  back  again  with  the  doc 
tor,  who  was  heartily  in  favor  of  her  scheme. 
In  fact,  he  said  the  man's  one  chance  for  life 
lay  in  some  such  change ;  the  wounds  were  not 
of  themselves  enough  to  kill  him,  but  the  soli 
tary  brooding  over  his  troubles  was  keeping 
up  a  fever  in  which  he  grew  daily  weaker  and 
daily  worse. 

When  Miss  Sophy's  plan  was  explained  to 
Zeph,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face  in  a  long, 
scrutinizing  gaze. 

"  I  donno  what  reason  ye  Ve  got,  ma'am,"  he 
said  slowly,  "  for  takin'  so  much  trouble  for  me. 
I  ain't  worth  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  ain't,"  replied  Miss  Sophy, 
"  but  you  can't  be  left  to  die  here  o'  these  flies. 
If  there  was  a  hospital,  that 's  the  place  you 
ought  to  go  to  ;  but  there  ain't  any,  'n'  my 
house  out  to  Greenhills  's  plenty  o'  room  in  it, 


ZEPH.  135 

'n'  there  's  a  man  out  there  can  see  to  all  you 
want.  You  don't  want  anythin',  the  doctor 
says,  but  good  food  'n'  to  be  quiet;  'n'  you  can 
have  that  out  there  without  its  costin'  anybody 
anythin',  so  we  Ve  decided  to  move  you  out 
there.  The  men '11  be  here  about  four  o'clock 
with  the  wagon." 

"  Greenhills  ranch  ?  "  said  Zeph,  inquiringly, 
—  a  faint  gleam  of  interest  lighting  up  the  sad 
ness  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  "  that 's  my  ranch ; 
that's  where  I  was  going  to  give  you  work, 
if  you  'd  wanted  it,  that  night  you  came  to  my 
house  ;  'n'  just  's  soon  's  you  're  on  your  feet 
there  's  plenty  for  you  to  do  out  there." 

Zeph  made  no  reply.  His  eyes  turned  to 
Zephie,  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
listening  wide-mouthed  to  the  startling  propo 
sition. 

Miss  Sophy  misunderstood  the  expression  of 
Zeph's  gaze. 


136  ZEPH. 

"  Yes,  the  boy  can  go  too,"  she  said.  "  It  '11 
be  handy  to  have  him  there.  There 's  plenty  o' 
room." 

"  I  was  a  thinkin'  that  it  would  be  hard  to  be 
where  I  could  n't  see  him,  ma'am,"  said  Zeph, 
slowly.  "  But  I  could  n't  take  him  out  there. 
He  'd  have  to  stay  with  his  mother." 

"  Stay  with  his  mother  !  "  shrieked  Miss 
Sophy;  and,  "  His  mother!"  cried  the  doctor. 
"  What  d'  ye  mean,  man  !  " 

Zeph's  face  flushed.  "IVe  been  talkin'  a 
good  many  things  over  with  the  boy,"  he  said, 
"an'  he'd  rather  stay  an'  help  his  mother, — 
a  while,  at  any  rate,  till  we  see  how  things  goes. 
He  was  goin'  to  see  her  to-day.  That's  all 
settled,  sir,"  he  added,  as  the  doctor  opened 
his  lips  again  with  an  impatient  ejaculation. 
"  There  's  things  that  nobody  knows  anything 
about  except  folks  themselves,  an'  other  folks 
can't  judge.  I  had  been  plannin'  to  go  away 
for  a  spell  's  soon  's  I  was  fit  to  work,  V 


ZEPH.  137 


Zephie  was  to  stay  with  his  mother  till  I  come 
back." 

There  was  a  dignity  in  Zeph's  tone  and  bear 
ing  which  lifted  the  homely  language  to  the 
level  of  eloquence;  and  the  earnest  answering 
look  on  the  child's  face,  as  he  met  his  father's 
eyes,  completed  the  revelation.  This  was  in 
deed  no  matter  for  "other  folks"  to  judge  of 
or  to  interfere  with. 

"  I  '11  go  out  to  your  place,  ma'am,"  continued 
Zeph,  again  fixing  a  bewildered  and  scrutinizing 
gaze  on  Miss  Sophy's  face.  "  I  '11  go  out,  an' 
be  thankful  to  ye  for  the  kindness.  I  think  it 's 
more  'n  likely  I  '11  get  on  my  feet  quicker  there 
'n  here.  I  ain't  so  very  bad  hurt,  'n'  's  soon  's 
I  'm  able  to  be  round,  I  '11  work  out  all  I  owe  ye, 
ma'am,  for  the  'commodation." 

Miss  Sophy  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"I  ain't  takin'  you's  a  boarder,"  she  said. 
"As  soon  as  you  are  able  to  be  round,  I'll  make 
a  bargain  with  you,  if  you  're  a  mind  to,  to  look 


138  ZEPH. 


after  the  ranch.  I  think  you  're  about  the  sort 
of  man  I  want  out  there,  —  that  is,  if  we  can 
agree  about  terms,"  added  Miss  Sophy,  her 
shrewd  business  habit  returning  to  her ;  "  there 
will  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  that  when 
you're  up  and  out." 

Zeph  smiled  faintly.  "  We  ain't  likely  to  dis 
agree  about  terms,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
rate  myself  over  'n'  above  high.  I  Ve  got  a 
good  team,  though,  'n'  wagon,  if  they  'd  be  any 
use  to  ye." 

"Have  you?"  exclaimed  Miss  Sophy.  "The 
very  thing  I  was  needing.  One  of  the  farm 
horses  has  broken  down,  an'  Waters  said  I  'd 
have  to  buy  another.  That  is  lucky,"  —  and 
Miss  Sophy  chuckled  to  herself  at  this  speedy 
returning  of  the  bread  she  had  cast  on  the 
waters,  —  "that  is  downright  lucky.  You  can 
be  carried  out  in  your  own  team,  and  Waters  '11 
work  one  o'  your  horses  right  in  harvestin'  the 
wheat,  'n'  that  '11  save  me  buyin'  a  horse,  'n'  be 


ZEPH.  139 


a  good  deal  more  'n  your  board  to  me,  which  '11 
set  your  mind  to  rest  about  that  part  on  't.  I 
always  did  hate  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
horses ;  don't  know  anything  about  'em,  if  I  did 
grow  up  on  a  farm ;  never  could  learn  to  har 
ness  'em ;  don't  know  a  bad  one  from  a  good 
one  ;  expect  I  'm  cheated  every  time.  I  dare 
say  you  '11  find  there  's  nothin'  the  matter  with 
this  one  Waters  says  's  sick.  When  you  get 
out  there  you  can  begin  to  keep  your  eye  on 
Waters  's  soon  's  you  're  a  mind  to.  You  don't 
need  to  be  on  your  feet  to  do  that,  'n'  he  needs 
watchin'. " 

A  most  injudicious  confidence  this  to  put  in 
a  stranger,  and  a  thing  wholly  foreign  to  Miss 
Sophy's  habitual  way  of  talking  with  persons 
whom  she  did  not  know.  She  could  not  ac 
count  for  it  to  herself,  and  felt  a  half  embar 
rassment  in  her  own  presence,  as  it  were,  as 
she  realized  it.  With  an  unconscious  effort  at 
reassuring  her  self-respect,  she  turned  to  the 


140  ZEPH. 


doctor,  as  they  left  the  house  together,  and 
said,  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  there  Js  some 
thing  about  that  fellow  makes  you  trust  him  '  on 
sight,'  as  you  say  on  money  notes.  Don't  you 
think  he 's  all  right  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  the  doctor,  heartily. 
"  No  doubt  of  his  being  's  honest  's  the  day  is 
long;  but  I  don't  believe  he's  much  force." 

"  How  could  he  help  having  force,  with  that 
great  body  o'  his?"  said  Miss  Sophy,  ingenu 
ously,  coloring  as  she  spoke.  "  He  's  'most  a 
giant." 

rt  I  did  n't  mean  that  kind  of  force,"  laughed 
the  doctor,  privately  amused  at  Miss  Sophy's 
standard.  "  Some  of  the  smallest  men  I  Ve 
ever  known  have  had  the  most  force.  I  don't 
know  much  about  this  man.  Nobody  says  any 
harm  of  him,  though.  But  that  wife  of  his  is 
a  regular  devil !  He  's  a  fool  to  stick  to  her  's 
he  does." 

Miss  Sophy  cast  her  eyes  down.     "  But  he  's 


ZEPH. 


married  to  her,"  she  said.  ,  "  What 's  he  goin' 
to  do?" 

"  Do  !  "  shouted  the  doctor.  And  he  thought 
to  himself,  "  Well  !  of  all  queer  questions  for 
a  steady-going  old  maid  like  Sophy  Burr  to 
ask !  Do  !  "  he  repeated.  "  Why,  get  a  di 
vorce  from  her  quicker  'n  lightning!  That's 
what  he'd  do  if  he'd  got  the  force  you  was 
talking  about." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  n't  think  that  would  be 
right,"  persisted  Miss  Sophy  in  a  still  lower 
voice,  still  with  downcast  eyes.  They  had 
been  walking  fast,  and  had  just  reached  her 
gate,  and  as  she  said  these  last  words  she 
lifted  the  latch  and  held  it  in  her  fingers, 
nervously  slipping  it  up  and  down.  "  Gammer 
Stein  says  he  loves  her  spite  of  all  she  's 
done." 

The  doctor  stared  in  undisguised  amazement. 
"  Loves  her  !  "  he  ejaculated. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy ;  "  so  Gammer  Stein 


142  ZEPH. 


says,  and  that  is  th^  reason  he  was  down  there ; 
he  follows  her  wherever  she  goes." 

"Well,  he  is  a  fool,  then,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Sophy.  The  word 
slipped  out  unawares  to  me  ;  but  that 's  what 
he  is !  " 

"  I  suppose  most  folks  would  call  him  so," 
answered  Miss  Sophy,  conveying  her  faint  last 
retaliation  and  championship  in  a  slight  em 
phasis  on  the  word  "most"  as  she  closed  the 
gate. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  retorted  the  doctor  stiffly, 
walking  away  with  a  puzzled  sense  of  sudden 
antagonism  towards  Miss  Sophy,  and  a  general 
disposition  to  reflect  contemptuously  on  spin 
ster  views  of  life.  "  I  should  say  so  !  "  he  mut 
tered  to  himself  again.  "  What  ever  has  got 
into  Sophy  Burr,  to  be  standing  up  for  that 
kind  of  immorality  !  " 

And  probably  nothing  short  of  a  revelation 
from  Heaven  could  have  made  it  apparent  to 


ZEPH.  143 


the  good  doctor's  mind  that  it  was  not  at  all 
for  immorality  that  Miss  Sophy  was  "  stand 
ing  up." 

In  the  cool  air  and  peaceful  stillness  of  the 
Greenhills  ranch  Zeph  mended  by  the  hour, 
mended  so  fast  that  it  seemed  to  him  like  a 
miracle,  mended  spiritually  as  well  as  bodily; 
new  resolution,  new  purpose,  awoke  within  him ; 
clouds  lifted,  and  he  saw  clearly  what  he  ought 
to  do.  This  new  vision  and  purpose  wrote 
themselves  at  once  in  his  face.  It  was  little 
less  than  a  transformation.  So  great  was  the 
change,  that  when  one  morning  Miss  Sophy 
saw  him  driving  up  to  her  gate  in  the  Green- 
hills  wagon,  she  did  not  know  him.  It  was  not 
quite  two  weeks  since  the  day  she  had  seen  him 
lying  wan  and  spiritless  in  his  bed. 

"  Sakes  alive  !  "  she  ejaculated,  "  that  can't  be 
Zeph  Riker  !  'T  is  too  !  Well,  I  never  !  He 's 
more  of  a  man  than  I  thought."  And  there  was 
a  certain  indefinable  tribute  of  new  respect  in  her 


144  ZEPH. 


manner  as  she  greeted  him  with  friendly  kind 
ness.  "  How  you  have  picked  up !  I  did  n't 
know  you  at  first.  Ready  to  go  to  work,  ain't 
you  ?  You  look  as  if  you  was !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Zeph.  "  I  'm  feelin'  fust- 
rate  now ;  I  'm  ready  to  take  hold  o*  anythin' 
ye  Ve  got  for  me  to  do,  'n'  very  thankful  to 
you,  ma'am,  for  givin'  me  the  chance.  I  expect 
ye  Ve  got  the  right  to  me ;  the  doctor  he  was 
a  tellin'  me  to-day  that  he  'd  about  giv'  me  up 
when  you  come  along  that  day  'n'  took  me  out 
to  your  place." 

"  Pshaw!"  said  Miss  Sophy.  "  That's  all 
nonsense.  There  was  a  dozen  dead  men  in 
you  then !  You  come  in,  and  I  '11  tell  you  what 
I  want  you  to  do.  I  'm  goin'  to  put  a  good 
deal  of  responsibility  on  you,  'n'  I  don't  ex 
pect  you  '11  disappoint  me." 

"I'll  try  not  to,"  said  Zeph,  gravely.  "I 
sha'n't  cheat  ye;  but  I  might  disap'int  ye,  for 
all  that.  There  's  those  that  'd  answer  for  me 


ZEPH.  145 


not  cheatin'  ye,  if  ye  'd  like  a  reference,  or  some- 
thin'  o'  the  kind,"  he  added. 

"  No  !  "  replied  Miss  Sophy.  "  I  '11  take  you 
on  your  own  references  —  and  mine  !  I  ain't 
often  mistaken  in  folks,  'n'  I  made  up  my  mind 
the  first  night  I  saw  you  that  I  'd  like  to  get 
you  to  work  for  me." 

As  soon  as  the  words  had  passed  her  lips  she 
would  have  given  much  to  recall  them.  The 
effect  they  produced  upon  Zeph  was  pitiful  to 
see.  In  the  flash  of  a  second  his  face  altered. 
Bitter  memories  swept  over  him.  His  whole 
figure  seemed  to  droop,  to  lose  strength;  he 
looked  again  the  grief-stricken,  wandering,  vacil 
lating  man  who  had  fumbled  weakly  at  her  door 
that  night. 

But  it  passed.  In  the  few  moments  during 
which  Miss  Sophy  stood,  embarrassed,  dumb, 
wondering  at  her  own  thoughtlessness  in  having 
thus  reminded  him  of  his  sorrow,  Zeph  had 
wrestled  himself  free  fro'm  the  sudden  grasp  of 
10 


146  ZEPH. 

it,  and  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  said : 
"  I  'm  more  to  be  trusted  now  than  I  was  then, 
Miss  Burr.  I  was  pretty  near  out  o'  my  mind 
that  night.  But  I  know  where  I  stand  now,  an' 
I  'm  goin'  to  work.  I  'm  all  right,  ma'am." 

"That's  all  right,  all  right,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Sophy,  awkwardly.  She  did  not  intend  to  have 
any  further  implication  with  Zeph's  domestic 
miseries.  "  If  he  's  going  to  be  my  overseer 
'n'  run  that  ranch,"  said  the  shrewd  woman  to 
herself,  "  he  's  just  got  to  be  my  overseer  V 
nothin'  else.  I  can't  be  carryin'  all  his  troubles 
on  my  shoulders.  Now  he  's  on  his  feet,  he  '11 
have  to  steer  his  own  canoe." 

It  was  only  the  helpless  that  appealed  to 
Miss  Sophy.  People  who  were,  as  she  in  con 
cise  metaphor  expressed  it,  "  on  their  feet  "  must 
look  out  for  themselves.  She  did,  and  she 
expected  everybody  else  to.  A  very  odd  mix 
ture  of  sympathy  and  hardness,  compassion 
and  coldness,  was  Miss  Sophy.  Even  to  herself 


ZEPH.  147 

she  was  puzzling,  —  so  swept  away  from  her 
bearings  sometimes  by  great  waves  of  pity 
and  desire  to  help  her  fellow-beings,  and  again 
flintily  indifferent  to  suffering,  whose  shape  or 
phase  antagonized  her  common  sense.  There 
was  no  limit  to  her  benevolent  activity,  gener 
osity,  when  once  her  heart  was  touched ;  but 
she  was  quite  capable  of  dismissing  other  cases 
with  a  curt,  "  I  Ve  no  patience  with  such  people, 
—  no  patience  at  all !  They  deserve  to  suffer. 
Good  enough  for  them !  " 

But  to  keep  Zeph  her  "  overseer  'n'  nothin* 
else  "  proved  not  to  be  so  easy  as  Miss  Sophy 
had  thought;  and  the  burden  of  the  thought  of 
his  sorrows  would  not  roll  off  her  shoulders  as 
she  had  intended.  Do  her  best,  she  could  not 
shake  herself  free  of  a  haunting  consciousness 
of  his  trouble  and  a  growing  admiration  for  his 
courageous  patience.  No  word  of  allusion  to  it 
passed  between  them.  She  would  not  ask,  and 
nothing  would  have  been  further  from  Zeph's 


148  ZEPH. 


impulse  than  to  offer,  any  information  in  regard 
to  the  state  of  affairs ;  but  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  studying  his  face,  and  drawing  from  its  ex 
pression  her  own  conclusions  as  to  the  posture 
of  matters.  When  he  looked  cheery  and  reso 
lute,  and  spoke  with  vivacity,  she  said  to  herself, 
"  Well,  he 's  gettin'  along  with  it  wonderfully." 
Whenever  he  looked  downcast  and  was  silent, 
saying  only  what  was  needful  to  be  said,  wrath 
shook  her  inmost  soul,  and  her  soliloquies  were 
vindictive.  "  She  's  been  pesterin'  him,  I  know 
she  has,  the  hussy !  I  'd  like  to  see  her 
drummed  out  o'  town ! "  or  "  I  expect  he  's 
worryin'  himself  to  death  about  those  children. 
I  don't  believe  but  the  law  'd  give  'em  to  him  if 
he  'd  set  about  it  He  could  have  the  boy  out 
at  the  ranch  's  well  as  not,  an'  the  baby  could 
be  boarded.  I  don't  know  what  the  Lord  sends 
children  to  such  women  for !  " 

Ah,  very  far  was  Miss  Sophy  drifting  from 
the   purpose   she   had  laid   down  to  herself  of 


ZEPH.  149 


letting  the  overseer  of  her  ranch  "  steer  his  own 
canoe"  !  She  was  fast  nearing  the  pass  of  being 
ready  to  snatch  from  his  hands  both  rudder 
and  oars.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a  woman 
to  thus  study  and  pity  a  man.  By  paths  of 
whose  bearing  she  does  not  so  much  as  dream, 
she  is  approaching  a  country  whose  name,  if  it 
were  once  pronounced  in  her  ears,  would  terrify 
her.  But  there  is  no  one  to  pronounce  the 
name;  the  paths  are  winding;  no  guide-posts 
are  there ;  no  tokens ;  not  so  much  as  a  dropped 
leaf  to  show  who  last  went  through.  Shrewdest 
of  all  commanders  in  the  world  is  Love,  who 
makes  his  recruits  recruit  themselves. 

If  Miss  Sophy  had  been  told  in  these  days 
that  this  constant,  half-tender,  half-impatient, 
half-pitying,  half-wrathful  watch  and  interest 
she  was  keeping  up  in  Zeph's  affairs  was  carry 
ing  her  straight  and  fast  into  loving  him,  she 
would  have  been  ready  to  slay  her  informant, 
and  would  have  been  sure  the  tale  was  a  lie.  All 


ZEPH. 


the  same  it  was  true.  This  was  what  was  coming 
to  Miss  Sophy;  helpless,  unaware,  stout-hearted, 
sturdy,  independent,  as  she  was,  it  was  coming 
to  her,  and  she  did  not  know  it  ;  in  her  ignorance 
she  was  inviting  it,  making  ready  for  it,  feeding 
it.  A  mighty  passion  it  would  be  when  once  it 
had  Miss  Sophy  fairly  in  its  clutch  ;  no  half-way 
measure  or  measures  in  anything  Miss  Sophy 
did,  or  became. 

And  so  the  days  wore  on,  faster  than  ever, 
it  seemed  to  her;  with  this  new  absorbing  in 
terest  added  to  her  other  duties,  she  appeared 
to  somehow  lose  time  out  of  each  day,  and 
never,  as  she  phrased  it,  "  get  round."  From 
morning  to  night  she  went  about  her  work 
with  her  brown  straw  hat  pressed  tight  down 
on  her  forehead.  This  hat  was  always  to 
Miss  Sophy's  servants  a  weather-signal.  It  had 
hitherto  been  her  habit  to  wear  it  only  on  days 
of  extra  work,  —  house-cleaning,  or  the  refitting 
of  a  room,  moving  of  a  stove,  or  some  such 


ZEPH.  151 

exigency.  The  sight  of  it  always  struck  terror 
to  her  workwomen's  hearts.  "  When  Miss  Sophy 
comes  down  in  the  morning  with  her  brown 
hat  on,"  one  of  them  once  said,  "  we  jest  know 
we  Ve  got  to  look  out  an'  step  lively !  "  But 
this  summer  the  brown  hat  was  worn  day  after 
day,  till  gradually  it  lost  its  portentous  mean 
ing  to  the  household.  It  really  was  no  less 
a  symptom  of  perturbations  than  before,  but 
they  were  perturbations  whose  existence  no 
one  suspected,  —  least  of  all,  Miss  Sophy. 

The  summer  had  gone  and  the  autumn  had 
begun.  October,  with  its  hasty  scurrying  snows 
and  threatening  sleets,  took  Miss  Sophy  by 
surprise.  "  Goodness  !  "  she  cried  one  morning; 
"if  it  ain't  snowing  a' ready!  Of  all  climates 
ever  I  heard  of,  I  do  think  this  Colorado  's  the 
most  unreasonable.  It's  bad  enough  to  keep 
on  snowing  into  May;  but  to  begin  again  the 
first  week  in  October  is  a  little  too  much !  It 
don't  seem  but  yesterday  I  had  the  stoves  took 


I52  ZEPH. 

down,  an'  now  they've  all  got  to  be  set  up 
again.  It 's  as  bad  as  Vermont,  every  bit." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  South  California,  Miss 
Sophy?"  said  one  of  her  boarders,  a  young 
engineer,  who  had  recently  come  from  San 
Diego.  "  That 's  the  climate  of  all  the  world ; 
never  a  flake  of  snow  from  one  year's  end  to 
the  other;  flowers  blooming  out  of  doors  all 
winter." 

"  Really?  Truly?  "  said  Miss  Sophy,  turning 
a  wondering  look  at  him.  "  I  did  n't  know  as 
't  was  so  warm  's  that." 

"  It  is  n't,"  the  engineer  replied,  laughing. 
"  That  's  the  joke  of  it.  I  never  suffered 
more  with  cold  here  than  I  have  there, 
when  I  Ve  got  caught  out  in  the  mountains 
at  night;  but  it  is  n't  cold  by  the  thermom 
eter,  and  that 's  what  the  plants  go  by,  I  sup 
pose;  at  any  rate,  I  know  they  're  in  bloom 
all  winter,  and  I  Ve  seen  barley  in  full  head 
in  January." 


ZEPH.  153 


"And  never  any  snow,  honest,  now?"  asked 
Miss  Sophy,  incredulously. 

11  Never,"  he  replied ;  "  that  is,  never  except 
on  the  mountains.  Once  I  saw  a  few  flakes 
come  down  in  Los  Angeles ;  it  was  in  February ; 
it  lasted  about  ten  minutes,  and  everybody  in 
town  was  out  looking  at  it.  There  had  n't  been 
a  flake  seen  there  for  nine  years." 

"  That 's  where  I  'd  like  to  live,  then  !  "  ejac 
ulated  Miss  Sophy.  "  I  guess  I  '11  move." 

"  Many  a  true  word 's  spoken  in  jest,  Miss 
Sophy,"  laughed  the  young  man  as  he  left  the 
table.  "  I  dare  say  I  '11  see  you  there  yet." 

"  You  '11  see  me  in  the  moon  first!  "  retorted 
Miss  Sophy.  "  It 's  my  destiny  to  live  an'  die  in 
Pendar  Basin  !  "  And  she  honestly  thought  so. 


154  ZEPH. 


V. 


GREENHILLS  was  shut  up;  the  cows  stabled 
in  town  and  turned  out  daily  to  the  meagre 
winter  pasture  with  the  town  herd;  the  horses 
also,  Zeph  having  represented  to  Miss  Sophy 
that  this  would  be  far  her  best  plan;  it  was 
nonsense  keeping  the  ranch  house  open  all  win 
ter,  he  said. 

"Just  cuttin'  himself  right  out  o'  bread  an* 
butter,"  thought  Miss  Sophy.  "That's  the 
kind  o'  man  I  knew  he  was.  But  what  will  you 
do,  Zeph?"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  do  very  well,"  he  replied.  "  I  Ve 
got  my  house,  and  there  is  always  teamin'  to  do, 
and  odd  jobs  o'  carpenterin' ;  they  say  there  '11 
be  considerable  buildin'  here  this  winter." 

Building !  Ah !  the  word  reminded  Miss 
Sophy.  She  had  long  wanted  to  build  an 


ZEPH.  155 


addition  to  her  house ;  she  had  more  than  once 
had  estimates  made  for  it,  but  had  given  it  up 
on  account  of  the  exorbitant  price  —  or  so  it 
seemed  to  her  —  asked  by  the  builders.  Here 
was  her  chance. 

"  I  want  some  buildin'  done,"  she  said.  "I've 
been  wantin'  it  for  a  long  time.  I  suppose 
you  'd  as  soon  carpenter  by  the  month  as  do 
anything  else?" 

"  I  would  sooner  do  anything  for  you,  Miss 
Burr,  than  do  anything  else,"  replied  Zeph,  with 
an  unconscious  emphasis  on  the  "  you  "  which 
made  Miss  Sophy  feel  ashamed  of  the  under 
current  of  avariciousness  in  her  proposition. 

The  plans  were  soon  drawn,  the  materials  pro 
cured,  and  Zeph's  winter  work  was  begun.  And 
now  began  also  new  and  undreamed-of  expe 
riences  in  Miss  Sophy's  breast.  Nothing  was 
more  natural  than  that  she  should  be  in  fre 
quent  consultation  with  her  builder,  should  be 
continually  taking  a  look  at  the  progress  of  the 


I 56  ZEPH. 


building;  this  she  would  have  done,  whoever 
had  been  laboring  on  her  new  rooms.  But  to 
no  other  man's  hammer  would  she  have  listened 
as  she  did  to  Zeph's.  Not  a  sound  of  it  escaped 
her  ear;  if  she  had  been  a  poet  she  could  have 
sung  a  strange  song  of  the  things  it  seemed  to 
say:  every  vibration  its  steady  stroke  made  in 
the  air  seemed  to  her  to  be  telling  the  story 
of  his  sad  life  and  his  patient  goodness.  When 
it  stopped,  she  wondered  what  he  was  doing, 
and  often  ran  in  to  see.  Hour  by  hour,  day  by 
day,  she  listened  to  and  studied  the  building  up 
of  the  walls,  the  laying  of  the  floors. 

"  I  'most  think  I  could  build  a  house  myself, 
I  Ve  watched  you  so,  Zeph,"  she  said  one  day. 

"  I  reckon  there  's  nothin'  you  couldn't  do,  if 
you  was  to  try,  Miss  Burr,"  replied  Zeph,  as  he 
stepped  back  from  a  window-sill  he  was  fitting 
and  half  shut  his  eyes  to  see  if  it  were  straight. 
"  There  ain't  many  women  like  you."  And 
Zeph  sighed.  Women  were  to  him  a  terrible 


ZEPH.  157 

problem.  He  was  an  innocent-minded  man  by 
nature,  and  had  remained  so  spite  of  rough 
surroundings.  His  own  experience  of  the  fal 
sity  of  a  fair  face  and  cooing  voice  had  made 
him  not  so  much  bitter  as  afraid.  He  could 
not  read  the  riddle.  What  was  there  in  a 
woman  to  make  her  such  an  embodiment  of 
heaven  or  of  hell  to  a  man?  Zeph  did  not 
like  to  look  any  fair  woman  in  the  eye  since 
he  knew  what  Rushy  was  at  heart.  As  for 
Miss  Sophy,  —  poor  Miss  Sophy! — into  his 
meditations  on  her  the  thought  of  sex  seldom 
entered.  He  thought  of  her  only  as  a  force,  — 
a  helping,  guiding,  protecting  personality.  Per 
haps  his  thoughts  of  her  might  have  formulated 
themselves,  even  yet,  somewhat  as  they  did 
when  he  crouched  in  the  church  pew  in  in 
stinctive  fear  of  her  "  dreadful "  activity.  But 
by  whatever  name  or  trait  she  stood  in  his 
mind,  she  possessed  the  grateful  loyalty  of  his 
steadfast  nature.  He  had  no  phrases  for  this 


158  ZEPH. 


sentiment;  neither  avowed,  measured,  nor  ques 
tioned  it;   he  simply  acted  it.     A  doubt  as  to 
the  fealty  and  service  he  owed  to  her  no  more 
occurred  to  him  than  a  doubt  as  to  the  love  he 
bore  to  his  children.     Money  could  not  have 
bought   from   him   one   hour   for    which    Miss 
Sophy  had  need  or  use.     This  was  simply  the 
man's  instinct;  the  way  he  was  made;  he  did 
not  know  that  there  was   anything  out  of  the 
ordinary   in   it.     Persons   of  this   order  do   not 
analyze    either   their  own  or  other   men's   mo 
tives.     They   simply    are    what    they    are,    and 
live    their    lives    out    day    by    day.     They    are 
spared    much   which    more    subjective   natures 
suffer  of  perplexity  and  pain.     But  sometimes 
when   a  blow   strikes   them   they  are   shivered 
to  the   ground  as   fatally  as    a   tree   is   rent  by 
a    lightning    shaft    or   uprooted   by   a    sudden 
blast.     And  when  this  happens,  nobody  knows 
what  did  it.     People  wonder  of  what  they  have 
died. 


ZEPH.  159 


A  dim  knowledge  of  some  such  quality  as 
this  in  Zeph  was  slowly  filtering  into  Miss 
Sophy's  perception. 

"  He  has  n't  ever  got  over  it,"  she  said  to  her 
self  as  she  went  stirring  about  the  house,  quite 
unaware  that  she  was  always  thinking  of  Zeph. 
"  He  has  n't  ever  got  over  it,  'n'  I  don't  sup 
pose  he  ever  will.  If  he  'd  only  get  the  chil 
dren  with  him  he'd  stand  it  better.  I  should 
n't  wonder  if  't  was  the  death  o'  the  man  yet ! 
The  hussy!" 

Perhaps  if  Miss  Sophy  had  not  been  so 
absorbed  in  these  reviewings  of  Zeph's  situa 
tion  and  emotions  she  might  have  come  sooner 
to  the  realization  6f  her  own.  But  she  had  no 
time  to  think  of  herself.  She  was  forever  grop 
ing,  groping,  like  one  in  the  dark ;  half  blinded 
by  pity  and  by  a  stinging  sense  of  the  utter 
impotence  of  all  outside  help  for  this  sorrowing 
man  whose  life  had  been  so  strangely  set  side 
by  side  with  her  own. 


160  ZEPH. 

However,  the  groping  days  were  nearly  over. 
They  could  not  last  forever.  Such  situations 
clear  themselves  by  laws  no  less  fixed  than  the 
laws  which  determine  the  joining  and  the  sepa 
rating  of  chemical  elements.  Events  combined 
to  help  on  the  clearing  up.  Strange  things  had 
been  happening  to  Zeph  of  which  Miss  Sophy 
knew  nothing,  and  never  would  have  known 
except  for  her  half  ally  and  confidante  in  regard 
to  him,  Gammer  Stein. 

Miss  Sophy  and  Gammer  had  seen  each  other 
seldom  of  late.  The  winter  had  been  a  severe 
one,  with  frequent  snows  and  bitter  cold ;  a  foot 
of  snow  was  to  Gammer  a  more  absolute  barrier 
than  a  stone  wall ;  and  to  Miss  Sophy  the  mer 
cury  at  zero  meant  simply  a  stiffening  of  every 
faculty  as  well  as  every  muscle.  Her  energy 
was  in  direct  ratio  to  the  warmth  of  the  air ;  at 
ninety  Fahrenheit  she  was  in  full  vigor;  even 
at  a  hundred  she  worked  on  with  delight.  In 
cold  weather  she  grew  inert  and  torpid,  and 


ZEPH.  161 


used  to  say  she  would  like  to  curl  up  like  a 
spider  and  lie  in  a  dark  corner  till  spring. 

Thus  it  had  happened  that  nearly  three 
months  had  gone  by  without  her  seeing  Gam 
mer;  and  one  morning  in  March  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  was  washing  the  breakfast 
dishes,  "  I  really  must  go  and  see  Gammer 
to-day.  If  this  wind  '11  only  stop  blowin', 
I'll  go  right  after  dinner."  The  words  had 
hardly  formed  themselves  in  her  thought, 
when,  seeing  a  shadow  darken  the  window, 
she  looked  up  and  saw  Gammer  herself  at  the 
door. 

"  I  never !  "  said  Miss  Sophy  aloud.  "  If  that 
ain't  speakin'  o'  angels,  sure  enough!  There's 
somethin'  cur'us  about  its  so  often  happenin' 
that  way !  " 

"  I  was  just  this  very  minute  sayin'  to  myself 
I  'd  come  up  'n'  see  you  this  afternoon,  Gam 
mer  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  opened  the  door. 
"  I  'm  real  glad  to  see  you." 
ii 


1 62  ZEPH. 

"  Then  yer  Ve  heered  it !  "  gasped  Gammer, 
sinking  breathless  into  a  chair. 

"  Heard  what?"  cried  Miss  Sophy,  instantly 
alert,  already,  in  her  heart,  sure  it  was  some 
thing  about  Zeph.  "  I  hain't  heard  anything. 
What's  happened?" 

"  Rushy  Riker  's  got  her  bill,"  cried  Gammer. 
"  She  's  got  it ;  V  she  'n'  thet  Nat  wuz  married 
last  night." 

"Married!"  cried  Miss  Sophy.  "What  do 
you  mean?  How  could  she  be  married?" 

"Why,  she's  billed,"  retorted  Gammer. 
"  Ther  papers  come  yisterday  't  noon,  'n'  she 
'n'  Nat  wuz  married  last  night.  I  allow  ther 
won't  nobody  hev  nothin'  ter  do  with  'em, — 
nobody  thet 's  decent.  I  allow  't  's  the  dearest 
day's  work  ever  she's  done  'n  her  life.  Thet 
Nat  '11  go  off  'n'  leave  her  some  day ;  he 's  none 
too  good ;  'n'  she  can't  lay  down  on  Zeph  agen." 

Miss  Sophy  stood  like  a  statue,  her  face 
scarlet,  her  eyes  flashing. 


ZEPH.  163 


"  Divorced  !  "  she  shrieked.  "  How  'd  she 
ever  get  a  divorce?  There  ain't  a  thing  against 
that  man,  not  one !  " 

"  Ter  be  sure  ther  ain't,"  said  Gammer,  settling 
back  in  her  chair.  "I  allow  thar  ain't  no  two 
sides  ter  thet;  she  couldn't  hev  got  no  bill  ef 
he'd  hev  appeared  agen  it;  but  he  wouldn't. 
He  talked  it  over  with  me.  She  come  up  thar 
ter  ther  house  's  long  ago  's —  wall,  somewhar 
abaout  New  Year's,  I  allaow  't  wuz,  'n'  she  told 
Zeph  she  wuz  gwine  to  bill  him  'n'  marry  Nat ;  'n' 
he  told  her  she  couldn't;  'n'  she  sez,  sez  she,  '  I 
kin  'n'  I  will ;  'n'  't  any  rate  I  'm  gwine  ter  live  with 
Nat.'  '  He  '11  never  marry  ye,  Rushy,'  sez  Zeph. 
'  He  will  too,'  sez  she ;  an'  then,  ef  yer  '11  b'leeve 
me,  thet  thar  Zeph,  —  I  swar,  I  donno  ef  the 
man's  flesh  'n'  blood,  er  what  he  ez,  —  sez  he, 
'  Ef  he  '11  marry  yer,  Rushy,  I  won't  hender  yer 
gettin'  ther  bill.  Then  yer  kin  live  decent.  But 
he  's  got  ter  swar  ter  marry  ye ;  '  'n'  I  allaow  ter 
yeow,  the  next  night,  ef  they  did  n't  both  on  'em, 


1 64  ZEPH. 

she  'n'   Nat,  the  pizen  skunk,  — ef  thar  war  n't 
both   on   'em  thar  to   Zeph's,  tellin'  him  what 
they  'd  made  up  thar  minds  ter  dew ;   'n'  naow 
they  Ve  got 't  done.    Thet  's  the  kind  er  law  thar 
ez  in  this  hyar  country ;  she 's  billed  aout  clar  'n' 
free  ez  ef  she  'd  been  'z  decent  ez  enny  woman 
could  be,  'n'  he  wuz  ther  one  't  wuz  wrong.     He 
jest   never  'peared  't   all.      Thet  wuz   all  they 
wanted.     I  'd  jest  like  ter  see  'em  both  jugged ! 
I  allaow  ther  would  n't  nothin'  short  er  thet  tech 
'em.     Twan't  but  er  few  nights  sence,  thar  wuz 
er  dance,  a  real  respectable  dance,  down  thar 
whar  she  lives,  'n'  she  'n'  Nat  went  in,  'n'  thar 
come  up  one  o'  ther  managers,  'n'  sez  he,  'Yer'll 
be  ser  good  's  ter  git  aout  er  this  room,  'n'  be 
mighty  quick  abaout  et,  tew,  or  yer'll  git  helped 
aout;  '  'n'  they  jest  larfed,  'n'  went  aout  a  tossin' 
thar  heads  ez  high  'n'  mighty.     I  allaow  naow 
they're  married  they'll  brazen  't  aout.     Folks 
forgits  everythin'." 

"  Has  she  got  the  right  to  keep  the  children? " 


ZEPH.  165 

asked  Miss  Sophy  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  Her 
face  was  very  pale  now,  and  the  flashing  of  her 
eye  strangely  dimmed. 

"I  didn't  heer  't  said,"  replied  Gammer,  "but 
she  's  got  'em.  I  allaow  ef  he  did  n't  'pear,  the 
childen  'd  go  to  her,  same  ez  she  got  ther  bill. 
'N'  he  sez  he  'd  ruther  she  hed  'em ;  they  '11  dew 
more  fur  her,  he  sez,  'n  everythin'  else.  She  's 
allers  good  ter  'em.  He'll  keep  an  eye  ter  'em." 

"  Then  he  's  's  free  to-day  's  if  he  'd  never 
been  married  't  all,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  still  in  a 
whisper,  still  pale,  and  with  dimmed  eyes. 

"  I  allaow  he  ez,"  said  Gammer;  "  'n'  I  allaow 
ter  yeow  thet,  much  's  I  'm  agen  bills,  'n'  billed 
folks  marryin'  agen,  I  'd  like  ter  see  Zeph  Riker 
git  him  another  wife,  pesky  quick  tew,  jest  ter 
spite  them  tew  devils  thet 's  kep'  him  in  er  hell, 
's  yer  might  say,  these  tew  years,  goin'  on  three. 
Mebbe  't  ain't  right,  'n'  mebbe  't  is.  I  allaow 
I  'd  take  the  resk  on  't  ef  'twuz  me." 

And  now  a  startling   thing   occurred.     Miss 


1 66  ZEPH. 


Sophy,  who  had  been  standing,  immovable,  rigid, 
in  front  of  Gammer,  listening  to  this  narrative, 
turning  first  red,  then  pale,  and  fast  losing  her 
self-control,  suddenly  lost  it  altogether,  and  fling 
ing  herself  into  a  chair,  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears,  sobbing  out,  half 
apologetically,  "  I  never  heard  such  a  story  in 
my  life !  Such  things  never  happened  where  I 
was  brought  up." 

Gammer  was  astounded.  Miss  Sophy's  bear 
ing,  her  attitude  throughout  all  her  active  interest 
in  Zeph's  affairs,  had  always  been  unmistakably 
that  of  the  cool,  common-sense,  kindly  benefac 
tor.  Her  sudden  change  to  the  level  of  a  weep 
ing  friend  baffled  Gammer's  utmost  powers  of 
understanding.  Bewilderment  made  her  dumb. 
Finally  she  stammered :  "  I  allaow  yer  tired, 
mebbe.  I  git  plum  beat  aout  sometimes,  'n' 
ther  leastest  thing  '11  set  me  off  cryin'."  At 
which  Miss  Sophy  cried  harder  than  ever,  and 
Gammer's  bewilderment  deepened. 


ZEPH.  167 


At  last  Miss  Sophy,  recovering  herself,  said : 
"That's  so.  This  long  spell  o'  cold  weather  's 
got  my  nerves  all  strung  up,  somehow,  so  I 
can't  bear  anything ;  an'  I  'm  sure  it 's  enough 
to  make  anybody  cry,  to  think  what  that  man 's 
gone  through  with.  I  've  got  to  know  him  real 
well,  you  see,  havin'  him  here  this  winter  to 
work  on  the  addition,"  she  added. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gammer,  glad  to  change  to  a  less 
exciting  topic.  "  He  wuz  er  tellin'  us  abaout  it. 
He  allowed  he  hed  reel  pleasure  buildin'  it  fur 
ye.  He  sets  a  heap  by  yer ;  donno  's  yer  know 
it,  but  he  doos.  He  sez  thar  war  n't  never  sech 
er  woman  'n  the  world  ez  yeow  be." 

Miss  Sophy's  cheeks  were  red  again,  and 
her  eyes,  brighter  than  before,  fastened  on  Gam 
mer's  face  as  she  spoke  these  words,  —  fastened 
there  with  an  expression  which  the  honest  old 
woman  was  far  from  understanding. 

Miss  Sophy  had  had  a  revelation.  No  more 
disguise,  equivocation,  illusion,  ignorance,  on 


1 68  ZEPH. 

her  part,  in  regard  to  her  feeling  toward  Zeph. 
She  loved  him,  and  she   knew  it. 

What  would  come  of  it?  Nothing;  she  said 
to  herself  sternly,  —  nothing  could  come  of  it. 
The  man's  heart  was  not  his  own,  was  no 
longer  to  be  won  by  any  woman ;  it  had  been 
given  once  for  all,  and  he  was  not  a  man  to  love 
twice,  said  Miss  Sophy  in  her  simplicity,  —  given 
once  for  all  to  that  wretched,  wicked  woman, 
the  mother  of  his  children,  who  had  now  sepa 
rated  herself  from  him  forever.  It  was  bitter. 
But  there  were  consolations.  Very  well  Miss 
Sophy  knew  that  his  life  would  not  be  severed 
from  hers  unless  she  herself  chose;  that  they 
would  work  together,  her  interests  the  same  to 
him  as  his  own,  her  wishes  and  needs  deter 
mining  his  daily  duties,  and,  what  was  still 
more,  the  sight  of  her,  and  talking  with  her,  the 
greatest  comfort  and  happiness  left  to  his  sad 
dened  life.  This  was  a  great  deal.  With  this, 
Miss  Sophy  thought  she  could  be  contented. 


ZEPH.  169 

"  And  if  I  can't,  I  can  go  away,"  she  said  to 
herself.  All  this  and  much  more  had  passed 
through  her  mind  while  she  was  saying  her 
final  words  of  parting  with  Gammer,  who  had, 
as  she  phrased  it,  "  dropped  everything  'n'  run 
to  tell  the  noos  on 't,"  and  was  in  haste  to  get 
home. 

After  Gammer  had  gone,  Miss  Sophy  turned 
her  back  on  her  work,  and  locked  herself  into 
her  room  for  a  resolute  thinking.  She  did  not 
mince  matters  with  herself  any  more  than  she 
would  have  done  with  another. 

"  Here  you  are,  Sophy  Burr,"  she  said,  as  she 
would  have  said  it  aloud  to  a  culprit  standing 
bodily  before  her.  "  Here  you  are !  Now 
what?"  At  the  end  of  the  hour  she  was  no 
nearer  knowing.  Her  second  soliloquy  had 
closed,  like  her  first,  with  the  words,  "  If  I 
can't,  I  can  go  away." 

The  March  snows,  and  the  April  snows,  and 
the  May  snows,  came  and  went.  June  followed 




like  a  midsummer  close  on  their  icy  days,  and 
Greenhills  was  green  again.     Young  vegetables 
were  peering  up  in  the  garden;  the  cows  were 
revelling  in  fresh  grass;  and  Zeph,  back  at  his 
post  on  the  ranch,  was  proud  of  the  cream  and 
butter   he  had  for  Miss  Sophy  twice  a  week. 
On   the   face   of    things   were    prosperity   and 
peace   in   both    Miss    Sophy's    houses.     Zeph's 
countenance  wore  a  new  look  of  contentment 
and  calm.     He  had  put  behind  him  the  things 
that  were  dead,  and  was  pressing  forward  to  the 
things  that  remained  alive,  in  way  of  duty  and 
work. 

A  change  had  come  about  in  his  relations 
with  Miss  Sophy,  which  had  given  him  a  new 
self-respect,  and  a  sense  of  manly  indepen 
dence,  which  were  an  ever-present  stimulus 
and  pleasure.  He  did  not  clearly  know  how 
this  had  happened.  Miss  Sophy  knew.  It 
had  begun  by  her  calling  him  "Mr.  Riker" 
one  day. 


ZEPH.  171 

Startled  and  uneasy,  he  looked  at  her,  —  looked 
the  question  he  did  not  speak.  Miss  Sophy 
laughed.  Relieved,  he  exclaimed,  "  Ye  scared 
me,  Miss  Burr.  I  was  afraid  I  'd  'fended  ye." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  the  clever  Miss  Sophy.  "  Far 
from  it.  But  I  don't  feel  it 's  respectful  for  me 
to  go  on  calling  a  man  by  his  first  name,  when 
he  manages  all  my  affairs  for  me.  I  look  to 
you  for  'most  everything  now,  and  I  ain't  goin' 
to  call  you  Zeph  any  longer." 

"  'Most  everybody  does,"  said  Zeph. 

"  That 's  because  they  don't  know  you  so 
well  as  I  do,"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

All  the  way  out  to  Greenhills  Zeph  kept 
thinking  this  over.  It  puzzled  him.  He  was 
pleased,  and  yet  not  pleased.  It  seemed  to  put 
him  farther  from  Miss  Sophy,  and  yet  nearer. 
He  gave  up  trying  to  understand  the  mystery  of 
it.  On  the  whole,  however,  he  wished  that  she 
would  say  "  Zeph."  But  she  did  not,  —  not  for 
many  a  day. 


1/2  ZEPH. 

The  next  thing  Miss  Sophy  did  was  simply 
an  act  of  justice.  She  said  to  him  one  day, 
"  Mr.  Riker,  at  the  rate  you  are  going  on,  you 
will  double  the  value  of  my  ranch  for  me.  I 
can  sec  that.  You  are  working  as  if  you  were 
working  for  yourself." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Zeph,  simply. 

"Well,"  continued  Miss  Sophy,  "that's  a 
thing  money  does  n't  pay  for.  Wages  don't 
cut  any  figure  at  all  when  a  man  takes  hold  of 
a  place  that  way;  you  ought  to  have  a  share  in 
the  place.  Now,  what  I  Ve  been  thinking  would 
be  a  fairer  way,  would  be  for  me  to  reckon  your 
year's  wages  in  a  lump  as  so  much  put  into  the 
ranch  on  your  account,  so  we  shall  be  owning  it 
together;  do  you  understand?  And  if  you  want 
to  go  into  stock  a  little  more,  why  I  '11  go  shares 
in  that  too." 

Zeph  stared.  The  good  luck  of  the  thing 
amazed  him.  Yet  he  saw  that  there  was  a  cer 
tain  fairness  in  it.  Miss  Sophy  was  not  making 


ZEPH.  173 


him  a  gift,  only  helping  him  to  a  good  invest 
ment  of  his  earnings. 

He  did  not  make  any  profuse  expressions  of 
gratitude.  It  was  not  his  way.  But  his  "Thank 
you,  Miss  Burr,  I  could  n't  ask  for  anythin' 
better  'n  that  if  I  'd  had  my  choice  given  t'  me," 
was  all  that  Miss  Sophy  needed.  And  the  new 
life  and  spirit  in  him  which  dated  from  that  day 
were  also  new  life  and  spirit  to  her  affectionate 
soul. 

Good  as  it  was  for  Zeph  to  be  called  Mr. 
Riker,  he  did  not  like  it.  At  last  it  seemed  to 
him  he  could  not  bear  it.  Vainly  he  wondered 
at  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  in  regard  to  it. 
"  What  odds  does  't  make  what  she  calls  me? 
I  swear  it 's  queer  how  I  hate  to  hear  her  say 
Mr.  Riker  t'  me,"  he  said. 

Finally  he  mustered  courage  to  say  this.  It 
was  at  Miss  Sophy's  back  gate ;  he  had  come  in 
as  usual  with  the  Greenhills  butter  and  cream, 
and  a  fine  lot  of  green  peas,  the  first  of  the 


174  ZEPH. 


season,  —  and  Greenhills  peas  were  always  two 
weeks  ahead  of  anybody's  else  in  the  region. 
Miss  Sophy  was  delighted,  and  as  she  bade 
him  good-by,  she  said,  "  I  'm  proud  enough, 
to  have  peas  so  early.  I  can't  see  how  you 
did  it.  I  'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you, 
Mr.  Riker." 

"  My  name  's  Zeph,"  said  Zeph,  in  a  sudden 
impulse  of  desperate  courage. 

"  So  's  mine  Sophy,"  retorted  Miss  Sophy,  in 
an  equally  sudden  impulse  of  desperate  courage, 
looking  full  into  his  eyes. 

"  Why  !  Miss  Burr !  "  gasped  Zeph,  dropping 
the  reins  in  his  agitation.  But  Miss  Sophy 
had  turned  and  run  up  the  path  as  fast  as  her 
feet  could  carry  her,  laughing,  however,  and 
looking  back  at  Zeph,  who  sat  gazing  after  her 
in  consternation. 

"  Good  Lord ! "  he  said  to  himself  as  she 
disappeared  in  the  doorway.  "  What  did  she 
mean?  She  wan't  mad,  anyhow.  She  could  n't 


ZEPH. 


ha'  meant  I  was  to  call  her  Sophy !  O'  course 
it  could  n't  ha'  been  that !  " 

"What  did  she  mean?"  was  a  constant  refrain 
in  Zeph's  thoughts  for  the  next  three  days ;  and, 
"  I  wonder  what  he  '11  do  when  he  comes  in 
Thursday?"  was  the  refrain  in  Miss  Sophy's. 
And  when  Thursday  morning  came,  and  the 
Greenhills  wagon  was  seen  turning  into  the 
lane  at  the  back  of  Miss  Sophy's  house,  her 
heart  thumped  like  a  hammer  in  her  bosom. 

"  If  he  don't  call  me  Sophy  now,  he  never 
will,"  she  thought. 

Zeph  was  also  in  trepidation.  "  I  dassent 
open  my  mouth,"  he  thought,  "till  she's  said 
something  first.  Perhaps  she 's  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

She  met  him  on  the  porch.  The  instant  he 
looked  in  her  face,  he  knew  she  had  not  forgot 
ten.  The  instant  Miss  Sophy  looked  in  his,  she 
divined  his  thought;  divined  also  that  it  would 
be  hers,  and  not  his,  to  speak  the  first  word. 


176  ZEPH. 


"  Good  morning,"  she  said ;  and  after  a  sec 
ond's  pause,  "Is  it  to  be  Mr.  Riker,  then,  or 
Zeph  ?  " 

"  Zeph,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  it  seemed 
less  than  a  whisper.  "  I  can't  bear  it,  somehow, 
to  have  ye  call  me  anythin'  else." 

"  Well,  then,  Zeph  it  is,"  replied  Miss  Sophy, 
as  lightly  and  glibly  as  if  she  had  nothing  more 
at  stake  than  a  jest  of  an  idle  moment;  "but 
you  know  what  I  told  you.  If  Zeph 's  your  name, 
Sophy 's  mine.  Give  and  take  's  fair  play." 

Zeph's  hands  were  full  —  his  hands  and  arms 
also  —  of  parcels  from  Greenhills  :  the  butter, 
the  jug  of  cream,  young  radishes,  lettuce,  peas. 
He  did  not  speak,  but  went  on  slowly  laying 
them  down  one  by  one,  trying  to  think  what 
he  should  say. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Sophy.     "Bargain?" 

Her  light  tone  deceived  him.  "  I  can't  think 
ye'd  make  fun  o'  me,  Miss  Burr,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  make  out  your  meanin'." 


ZEPH.  177 

"  I  could  n't  ever  make  fun  of  you,  Mr. 
Riker,"  retorted  Miss  Sophy,  in  a  tone  still 
merry,  but  with  an  under  note  in  it  which 
Zeph  had  not  been  man  if  he  had  failed  to 
perceive. 

"  You  're  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  or  ever 
shall  have,  in  this  world,"  cried  Zeph. 

"  And  you're  the  best  friend  I  have,  or  ever 
expect  to  have,  in  this  world,"  answered  Miss 
Sophy;  "the  very  best  —  Zeph!" 

Their  eyes  met,  —  Miss  Sophy's  shining  with 
resolution  and  tears,  Zeph's,  dark  with  unfath 
omable  emotion  and  bewilderment.  He  opened 
his  lips  to  speak ;  then  slowly  shaking  his  head, 
turned  to  go. 

"  Good-by,  Zeph !  "  said  Miss  Sophy,  smil 
ing.  She  had  conquered,  she  was  sure.  It 
would  not  be  on  that  day,  or  the  next,  perhaps, 
that  Zeph  could  speak  her  name,  but  it  would 
come. 

"  If  you  can't  say  Sophy,  you  need  n't  say 


12 


178  ZEPH. 


anything,"  she  continued.  "  I  don't  like  Miss 
Burr  any  better  than  you  do  Mr.  Riker !  " 

Zeph's  eyes  lighted  up.  His  tongue  was 
loosed  now.  "  Don't  ye?"  he  exclaimed.  "  If  I 
thought  that,  I  could  learn  any  name  ye  wanted 
me  to !  " 

"  Sophy  '11  do,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  dryly. 
"  It 's  as  good  as  Zeph.  They  ain't  either  of 
'em  any  great  beauties  'o  names  to  boast  of!  " 
And  now  they  both  laughed  merrily,  and  parted 
without  another  word,  only  a  farewell  smile  to 
each  other,  —  a  smile  out  of  which  all  the 
sparkle  of  the  mirthful  laughter  had  gone, 
leaving  behind  the  soft  light  of  a  deep  affection. 
And  the  next  time  the  Greenhills  wagon  came 
in  (it  was  but  three  days  from  Thursday  to 
Monday),  Miss  Sophy  met  it  at  the  gate, 
and  said  with  sweet  gravity,  "  Good-morning, 
Zeph ;  "  and  Zeph  made  answer,  "  Good-morn 
ing,  Sophy."  And  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
say  which  of  them  was  the  happier  in  the  new 


ZEPH.  179 

sound  the  syllables  bore  and  the  new  bond  their 
speaking  made. 

The  happiness  of  it  lasted  Miss  Sophy  for 
many  days ;  but  as  the  summer  wore  away  she 
began  to  look  for  something  more,  —  she  hardly 
dared  phrase  to  herself  for  what,  yet  in  her 
heart  she  knew  ;  and  knew,  too,  that  the  thing 
she  craved  was  hers  by  right ;  that  the  lonely, 
sorrowful,  deserted  man  for  whom  she  had  come 
to  care  so  tenderly  had  come  also  to  love  her 
with  a  true  devotion.  But  gradually  there  grew 
up  in  her  a  fear  that  he  would  never  say  so. 
Not  by  word  or  look  did  he  show  that  any  idea 
of  any  relation  beyond  or  different  from  their 
present  one  was  in  his  mind.  Whether  it  were 
that  he  lacked  courage,  or  that  he  still  held 
himself  bound  by  the  bond  which  his  wife  had 
broken,  Miss  Sophy  could  not  determine.  On 
the  latter  point  she  herself  had  had  doubts,  but 
by  some  surreptitious  reading  on  the  subject 
of  divorce,  and  by  several  cautiously  conducted 


180  ZEPH. 


consultations  with  her  minister  and  with  other 
persons,  she  had  at  length  become  fully  satis 
fied  that  there  could  be  no  possible  shadow  of 
wrong  in  the  second  marriage  of  a  man  whose 
wife  had  not  only  betrayed  and  deserted  him, 
but  become  legally  the  wife  of  another. 

"  It  has  n't  got  any  business  to  stand  in  his 
way  one  minute/'  she  said  to  herself  again  and 
again ;  "  and  perhaps  't  ain't  that  that  is  standing 
in  his  way.  But  what  else  can  it  be?  'T  ain't 
any  love  for  her;  I'm  sure  o'  that.  That's  one 
comfort !  " 

And  by  the  help  of  this  last  item  of  comfort 
Miss  Sophy  weathered  the  summer  fairly  well. 
But  when  the  autumn  signals  were  flung  out,  — 
great  yellow  patches  of  aspens  high  up  on  the 
mountain-sides,  and  tossing  plumes  of  purple 
asters  around  the  Greenhills  spring,  —  Miss 
Sophy  lost  heart. 

"  Winter  '11  be  here  in  a  jiffy,"  she  said,  "  an' 
he  won't  let  me  keep  the  ranch  open,  an'  I  can't 


ZEPH. 


stand  it;  I  can't  stand  not  to  see  him  's  I've 
been  seein'  him !  "  And  Miss  Sophy  racked  her 
brain  vainly  for  a  device. 

Finally  one  occurred  to  her,  —  so  desperate,  so 
final,  it  almost  took  her  breath  away  as  it  first 
flashed  through  her  thoughts;  but  the  longer 
she  thought,  the  more  she  believed  it  good.  It 
was  desperate,  and  it  would  be  final :  if  she  won, 
she  won;  if  she  lost,  she  lost  —  all.  This  is  a 
common  trick  of  Love's  winning.  He  makes 
gamesters,  desperate  gamesters,  of  most  of  us 
at  least  once  in  our  lives.  We  throw  down  our 
last  card  and  bravely  call  out  color  or  number, 
all  the  while  feeling  a  death-grip  at  our  throats. 

"  I  might  as  well ! "  said  Miss  Sophy. 
"  There 's  no  use  going  on  this  way  forever. 
It's  nonsense;  besides  that,  it'll  kill  me.  I 
can't  stand  it.  I  'd  rather  go  away." 

And  she  made  up  her  mind.  But  after  she 
had  made  it  up,  she  hesitated  day  after  day. 
She  trembled.  More  than  once  she  opened  her 


1 82  ZEPH. 

lips  to   speak  the  words,  and   terror  held   her 
dumb.     If  she  lost,  she  lost  all. 

At  last  she  spoke.  It  was  at  Greenhills. 
Already  the  foreshadowing  of  winter  glooms 
had  touched  the  place;  frost  had  turned  the 
vines  black  and  shrivelled  every  leaf  in  the 
garden.  Yet  it  was  only  the  middle  of  Sep 
tember.  It  looked  desolate. 

"  Looks  as  I  feel,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  grim  and 
resolute ;  "  but  I  '11  feel  worse,  mebbe,  before 
I  'm  done  with  it." 

"Zeph,"  she  said.  Zeph  was  standing  by 
her  side  at  the  bars  of  the  corral  where  all 
the  yearlings  had  been  put.  He  had  been 
pointing  them  out  to  her  with  great  satis 
faction. 

There  was  something  in  Miss  Sophy's  tone 
which  fell  strangely  on  Zeph's  ear.  He  knew 
the  inflections  of  her  voice  better  than  she 
dreamed.  What  was  coming?  She  had  never 
pronounced  his  name  thus  before.  Never,  in- 


ZEPH.  183 


deed !  He  turned  his  face  quickly  towards 
her,  inquiringly. 

"  Zeph  !  "  she  said  again,  and  again  the  words 
refused  to  come.  She  took  firm  hold  of  the 
upper  rail  of  the  fence  to  support  herself,  and 
began  once  more:  "Zeph,  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  to  California.  I  'm  goin'  to  sell  out 
an'  go  this  fall.  I  about  made  up  my  mind  last 
winter  I'd  never  stand  another  o'  these  Colorado 
winters;  but  it's  been  so  pleasant  this  summer, 
it  kind  of  put  me  out  o'  the  notion ;  but  now  I 
see  it  settin'  in  again  I  feel  just 's  I  did,  V  I  'm 
goin' !  I  'm  gettin'  too  old  to  stand  any  more 
snow.  Do  you  know  anybody  that  ud  like  to 
buy  this  ranch?  There's  a  man  ready  to  take 
the  other  house  right  off  my  hands  just  as  't  is, 
furniture  'n'  all." 

Astonishment,  incredulity,  pain,  bewilder 
ment,  each  in  turn  and  all  together,  had  swept 
over  Zeph's  face  while  Miss  Sophy  was  speak 
ing  these  words.  His  eyes  fastened  themselves 


1 84  ZEPH. 


on  hers  blankly.  As  soon  as  she  ceased  speak 
ing,  he  stammered :  "  Sophy  !  you  !  going  to 
California!  goin'  away!  You  can't  mean  it, 
Sophy!  What  are  ye  goin'  for?  You're  doin' 
splendid  here !  "  The  words  came  slower  and 
slower ;  the  man  was  half  stunned ;  and  before 
the  hesitating  sentences  were  concluded,  he,  too, 
had  instinctively  grasped  the  bars  for  support. 
"  Ye  can't  mean  it,  Sophy  !  I  'most  think  ye  're 
crazy." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  more  at  ease 
already.  If  he  felt  it  like  this,  he  would  never 
let  her  go  alone,  surely.  Her  winning  must  be 
close  at  hand.  She  did  not  yet  thoroughly  know 
the  nature  of  the  man  she  was  dealing  with. 

"  I  guess  not,"  she  repeated.  "  I  hain't  ever 
had  the  name  o*  bein'  light-headed.  I  Ve  been 
a  long  time  makin'  up  my  mind  to  this." 

"  I  wish  ye  'd  ha'  let  me  know  on  't  sooner," 
said  Zeph,  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  which  was 
music  to  Miss  Sophy's  ears. 


ZEPH.  185 

"  Why?"  she  said. 

"  I  could  ha'  got  used  t'  't  by  degrees,"  he 
replied  sadly.  "It's  struck  me  all  of  a  heap. 
But  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  ye,  Sophy,"  he 
continued,  bracing  himself  up,  and  looking  away 
from  her  for  a  minute.  "I  could  ha'  got  a 
buyer  for  the  ranch  better  in  the  summer  than 
now.  It 's  a  bad  time  to  sell.  I  expect  it  would 
be  better  to  let  it  lay  's  't  is  till  spring.  I  can 
look  after  it  for  ye  till  then,  same  's  I  have 
done."  And  Zeph  sighed. 

Alas !  Had  she  lost?  What  was  Miss  Sophy 
to  say  next?  The  talk  had  taken  a  hopeless 
turn.  To  gain  time,  she  replied  meaninglessly : 
"  I  don't  know !  I  suppose  't  is  a  bad  time ! 
I  never  thought  o'  that.  But  I  want  to  go  be 
fore  the  cold  weather  sets  in.  There 's  flowers 
all  winter  long  in  the  south  part  o'  California, 
they  say;  an'  that's  where  I'm  goin'." 

"  Ye  Ve  always  seemed  real  happy  here, 
Sophy,"  cried  Zeph,  "fnf  real  well  too  !  T  never 


1 86  ZEPH. 


so  much  's  crossed  my  mind  ye  'd  ever  leave ; 
ye  ain't  got  nothin'  ailin'  ye,  have  ye,  to  make 
ye  need  to  go?"  And  his  face  clouded  over 
with  the  new  anxiety  which  had  that  instant 
occurred  to  him. 

What  tantalizing  cruelty  sometimes  in  these 
impenetrable  veils  between  human  hearts,  which 
are  at  other  times  such  merciful  protection  !  If 
Miss  Sophy  could  have  known  that  as  Zeph 
asked  this  question  his  racked  heart  was  say 
ing,  "  If  she  's  got  any  disease  hold  on  her  I  '11 
coax  her  t'  let  me  go  'long  too,  'n'  take  care  of 
her,"  she  would  have  then  and  there  feigned 
herself  the  victim  of  any  known  malady.  But 
in  her  pride  of  energetic  health  she  made  haste 
to  repudiate  any  such  implication. 

"  Mercy,  no !  "  she  said.  "  Do  I  look  like 
a  sick  woman?  Never  felt  better.  But  I  'm 
tired  o'  this  place,  an'  this  life,  an'  everything 
about  it,  an'  especially  o'  these  winters.  I  'd 
like  to  go  where  I  'd  never  see  another  flake  o' 


ZEPff.  1 8; 

snow  's  long  's  I  live.  I  was  brought  up  on 
snow;  'n'  I  Ve  had  six  months  o'  snow—  that  is 
o'  bein'  liable  to  snow  —  out  o'  every  year  I've 
been  here;  'n'  I'm  sick  on  't,  'n'  I'm  goin'. 
I  Ve  got  enough  to  get  me  a  place  that  I  can 
make  a  livin'  off  anywhere;  'n'  I  don't  know 
any  reason  why  I  should  slave  myself  here,  'n' 
freeze  to  death  every  winter." 

Luckless  Miss  Sophy.  Each  one  of  these  last 
sentences  went  like  a  bullet  to  Zeph's  heart. 
"Tired  o'  this  place,"  was  she?  The  place 
which  had  seemed  to  him  almost  blissful  of 
late ;  and  the  work  which  they  had  been  jointly 
doing,  he  and  she,  the  fruitful  ranch,  the  in 
creasing  herd,  the  prosperous  boarding-house, 
—all  this  was  to  her  "  slaving  to  death,"  and 
she  was  going.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
it  without  a  word  to  him  any  more  than  if  he  had 
been  the  poorest  cattle-herder,  on  the  ranch,  — 
to  him,  to  whom  she  had  said,  only  a  few  short 
months  ago,  that  he  was  the  best  friend  she  had 


188 


ZEPH. 


on  the  earth  !     Very  well !  woman  like  woman  ! 
They  were  all  the  same,  heartless  and  untrue,  — 
one  from  vanity  and  passion,  another  from  ca 
price  !     They  were  all  alike  !     This  was  the  last 
woman  whom  he  would  ever  trust !     The  storm 
of  all  these  bitter  thoughts  turned  Zeph's  face 
stern  and  his  voice  cold,  and  when  he  replied 
curtly,  "Well,  ye  'd  better  go,  then,  if  that's  the 
way  ye  feel,  Sophy,"  poor  Miss  Sophy  had  to 
clutch  tight  to  her  rail  to  keep  from  staggering. 
The  hurt  that  he  gave  her,  however,  was  their 
salvation.     Without  it  they  might  have  perhaps 
parted  forever,  then  and  there,  neither  knowing 
that  the  other  was  wounded.     But  this  hurt  was 
too  sudden  and  too  deep  to  be  borne  without 
a  cry;    and  Miss  Sophy's  voice,  even  without 
the  tears  in  her  eyes,  would  have  appealed  to 
any  man  like  a  cry,  as   she  exclaimed,  "  Oh, 
Zeph  !     I  don't  see  why  you  take  it  that  way ! 
I  think  you  're  real  cruel !  " 

"  I  don't  never  mean  to  be  that,"  said  Zeph, 


ZEPH.  189 


"  not  to  nobody.  But  you  don't  seem  to  think 
it 's  anythin'  for  a  fellow  to  be  turned  off  all 
in  a  minute,  an'  everythin'  all  broke  up !  " 

Miss  Sophy  took  heart  again.  "  Who  said 
anything  about  turning  off?"  she  asked,  with  a 
faint  smiling  in  her  tearful  eyes. 

"  Well,  you  did  n't  say  anythin'  about  any- 
thin'  else !  "  retorted  Zeph,  still  sullen.  "  You 
had  n't  any  ideeV  takin'  me  with  ye?  " 

"  I  Ve  been  thinkin'  all  the  time,  Zeph,"  said 
Miss  Sophy,  "  that  I  did  n't  know  how  I  'd  ever 
get  along  without  you !  " 

"  Why  did  n't  ye  say  so,  then?  " 

"How  could  I?" 

"How  could  ye?  What's  to  hender?  Ye 
got  me  to  do  your  business  for  ye  here,  'n' 
let  on  to  think  so  much  o'  my  managin' ;  'n' 
why  couldn't  ye  Ve  said  ye'd  like  to  have  me 
keep  on  with  it  there  ?  No,  ye  're  tired  o'  the 
place  'n'  everybody  in  it!  That's  what's  the 
matter  with  you  !  " 


ZEPH. 


Was  this  Zeph?  What  was  to  become  of 
Miss  Sophy  in  this  chaos  of  confusion  which 
she  had  drawn  down  on  her  head?  Stretching 
out  both  her  hands,  she  cried:  "Zeph,  I  don't 
know  what 's  got  into  you  'n'  me  to  be  quarrel- 
lin'  here,  nor  what  we  're  quarrellin'  about, 
neither.  I  should  think  you  'd  know  that  the 
last  thing  I  'd  want  to  do,  would  be  to  part  from 
you,  an'  that  I  'd  rather  have  you  manage  for 
me  than  anybody !  " 

The  pleading  in  her  voice  was  unmistakable ; 
her  face  glowed  with  affection.  Still  Zeph 
seemed  both  deaf  and  blind. 

"Then  why  didn't  ye  ask  me  to  go  'long 
too?"  he  reiterated.  "Why  didn't  ye  take 
me  into  any  o'  your  plans?  Will  you  take 
me  now?"  he  added,  with  a  half-surly  and  in 
credulous  emphasis. 

Miss  Sophy  hid  her  face  in  both  her  hands ; 
she  was  rosy  red ;  she  saw  a  vista  opening. 

"  How  could  I,  Zeph  ?  "  she  whispered.    "  Folks 


ZEPH. 


don't  know  us  out  there.  It's  very  different 
here,  where  everybody  knows  us.  I  don't  want 
to  go  without  you,  Zeph,  you  need  n't  think  !  " 

Into  the  chambers  of  Zeph's  brain  light  had 
broken  at  last.  What  a  dolt  he  had  been ! 

"  Oh,  Sophy,  Sophy !  "  he  cried,  "  was  ye  a 
tryin'  me?  I  do  believe  ye  was  !  "  and  he  threw 
his  arms  around  her.  "  Sophy,  it  'most  killed 
me  to  hear  ye  talk  so  cool  o'  goin'  away  'n' 
leavin'  me,  when  I  hain't  had  a  thought,  day 
nor  night,  except  o'  servin'  you  'n'  belongin'  to 
you,  for  so  long !  " 

"Well,  why  did  n't  you  say  so,  then?"  retorted 
Miss  Sophy,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  making 
haste  to  turn  the  tables  on  him  and  avenge  her 
self.  "  Why  did  n't  you  say  so,  and  not  drive 
me  into  just  about  offerin'  myself  to  you?" 

"  Sophy !  Sophy  !  "  answered  Zeph,  "  don't  you 
go  to  talkin'  any  such  way  's  that.  I  don't  know 
about  offerin',  's  you  call  it;  givin'  's  more  'n 
offerin',  an'  you  know  well  enough  I  giv'  myself 


I Q2  ZEPH. 

to  you  a  long  ways  back,  an'  hain't  ever  had, 
from  that  day  to  this,  any  idee  o'  doin'  anythin' 
but  helpin'  ye  an'  lovin'  ye  's  long  's  I  live  on 
this  earth!" 

And  Miss  Sophy  was  content. 


ZEPH.  193 


VI. 

THERE  was  but  one  drawback  to  Miss  Sophy's 
happiness.  In  the  new  confidence  which  now 
existed  between  her  and  Zeph,  she  learned 
more  fully  than  she  had  done  before  the  depth 
of  his  affection  for  his  children.  She  found  that 
during  all  these  months  it  had  been  his  habit  to 
see  them  frequently,  —  sometimes  by  clandestine 
watchings,  sometimes  by  Rushy's  consent  that 
Zephie  should  on  a  Sunday  take  his  little  sister 
to  their  father's  house.  By  this  means  Zeph  had 
kept  himself  constantly  in  relation  with  them 
and  retained  strong  influence  over  the  boy. 
Separation  from  them  was  going  to  be  a  ter 
rible  thing  to  him;  there  were  times  when  he 
even  doubted  if  it  were  right  for  him  to  go  away 
and  leave  them  entirely  in  the  control  and  at  the 
13 


194  ZEPH. 

mercy  of  their  stepfather.  Only  his  unshaken 
confidence  in  the  strength  of  Rushy's  maternal 
affection  enabled  him  to  think  of  it. 

"  She 's  just  like  a  wildcat  'bout  the  chillen," 
he  said,  "  an'  always  was ;  if  Nat  Leeson  should 
so  much's  raise  his  hand  to  'em,  she'd  leave  him 
quicker  'n  lightnin'.  I  ain't  a  mite  afraid  of  his 
ever  doin'  'em  any  harm  that  way.  But  if  she 
should  come  to  want  any  way,  —  Sophy,  I  don't 
see  it  clear  just  how  to  fix  that.  Ye  know, 
Sophy,  I  'd  always  feel  myself  bound  to  those 
children." 

"  Of  course  !  "  replied  Miss  Sophy.  "  And  so 
do  I.  I  wish  to  goodness  we  had  'em  both  here 
this  minute  to  take  'em  with  us !  That 's  what 
I  'd  like !  " 

"Would  ye,  Sophy?"  cried  Zeph.  "Would 
ye  really?  Oh,  Sophy,  ye  're  real  good !" 

"  I  don't  suppose  there  'd  be  any  chance  o' 
gettin'  'em,  or  either  one  on  'em,"  said  Miss 
Sophy.  "Would  there?" 


ZEPH.  IQ5 


"  Oh,  Lord !  "  cried  Zeph,  catching  his  breath 
at  the  very  idea.  "  That 's  all  ye  know  about 
Rushy !  She  'd  rather  kill  'em  than  let  anybody 
else  have  'em  !  She  's  fierce,  Rushy  is.  There 
is  n't  the  least  use  thinkin'  o'  such  a  thing." 

But  the  doctrine  that  there  was  no  use  in 
thinking  of  a  thing  was  not  in  Miss  Sophy's 
creed.  The  more  obstacles  lay  in  the  way,  the 
more  her  native  obstinacy  allied  itself  with  her 
indomitable  courage  to  surmount  them.  And 
in  this  instance  a  passion  greater  than  either 
the  courage  or  the  obstinacy  came  in,  making 
a  triple  alliance  strong  enough  to  move  moun 
tains.  Her  love  for  Zeph  was  so  great  that 
its  instincts  were  preternatu rally  keen. 

"  He  '11  never  be  happy  long  away  from  them 
children  o'  his,"  she  -said,  "  an'  he  's  got  to  have 
'em,  —  or  at  least  the  baby;  she'd  be  more  to 
him  than  the  boy ;  he  'd  get  along  if  he  had  her ; 
an*  if  we  got  her,  the  boy  'd  be  big  enough  to 
come  before  long  if  he  wanted  to." 


ZEPH. 


Plan  after  plan,  all  visionary  and  impracticable, 
Miss  Sophy  revolved  in  her  head.  Actual  kid 
napping  of  the  child  would  not  have  seemed  to 
her  wrong;  but  her  common  sense  told  her  that 
it  would  involve  dangers  not  to  be  thought  of. 
Cautiously  she  sounded  Gammer  Stein  as  to 
the  possibility  of  Rushy's  being  induced,  by 
the  prospects  of  superior  advantages  to  her 
daughter,  to  give  her  to  be  adopted  by  a  stran 
ger.  No  suspicion  crossed  Gammer's  mind  as 
to  Miss  Sophy's  personal  interest  in  the  matter, 
any  further  than  her  benevolent  interest  in  Zeph 
explained  it. 

"  Some  o'  yer  folks  wantin'  to  'dopt  a  child?  " 
she  said.  "  Wall,  I  allow  ef  they  know  what 's 
fur  thar  good  they  '11  keep  shy  o'  proposin'  it  to 
Rushy  Riker,  —  Leeson,  I  s'pose  her  name  is 
naow,  but  I  sha'n't  never  call  her  nothin'  but 
Riker,  not  outen  Zeph  wuz  ter  git  married, 
an'  I  allow  thet's  ther  furthest  off  from  his 
thoughts  't  ever  wuz.  He  seems  ter  be  reel 


ZEPH.  197 

settled  naow.  'T  wuz  luck  fur  him  a  gittin' 
yeour  place.'1 

"  Then  you  think  that  Mrs.  Leeson  would  not 
give  up  the  little  girl?"  interrupted  Miss  Sophy, 
who  found  the  conversation  both  disagreeable 
and  embarrassing. 

"  Not  she  !  "  said  Gammer.  "  I  '11  say  thet 
much  fur  Rushy  Riker.  Money  couldn't  buy 
one  o*  her  young  uns,  I  allaow  't  could  n't. 
She 's  fierce  fur  'em  allers,  an'  reel  good  ter 
'em,  tew.  She's  a  hussy,  aout  an'  aout,  an' 
allers  wuz,  I  be  bound ;  but  she  's  a  good 
mother  t'  her  young  uns  ser  fur's  lovin'  'em 
goes.  She  'd  run  round  'n'  leave  'em  fur  frolics 
an'  sech,  an'  she  ain't  no  great  hand  ter  tidy  'em 
up ;  but  she  loves  'em  more  'n  most  women  doos 
thar  young  uns,  I  allaow  she  doos.  Thet 's  one 
thing  made  me  ser  sure  Nat  'd  never  marry  her 
'n  ther  livin'  world,  kase  I  allowed  he  would  n't 
be  bothered  'th  ther  young  uns;  but  't  wuz 
young  uns  'n'  all,  'r  else  not  't  all,  'n'  it  doos 


1 98  ZEPH. 


look  ez  ef  he  wuz  bound  ter  hev  Rushy.  He 's 
workin'  her  'most  ter  death  tew;  thet's  what 
some  says;  'twuz  jest  fur  her  cookin'  he  wanted 
her.  He  's  took  the  restaurant  now,  —  the  Star 
restaurant,  whar  he  wuz  a  cookin',  'n'  he  'n'  her 
ez  runnin'  it,  'n'  er  takin'  in  money  like  greased 
lightnin',  they  say.  She  's  an  orful  good  cook, 
Rushy  ez.  She 's  smart ;  nothin'  she  can't  do 
ef  she  wants  ter,  'cept  be  decent;  I  allow  she 
could  do  thet  tew,  ef  she  wanted  ter.  She 
don't  want  ter.  But  she  don't  do  no  gaddin' 
naow,  don't  yer  furgit  it !  She 's  got  er  marster 
naow  'stead  o'  er  slave;  thet's  what  she  hed 
afore,  _  er  reg'lar  slave,  thet  Zeph  wuz.  She  '11 
be  sick  o'  her  bargain,  I  allaow,  'fore  she's 
through  with  it.  I  know  a  reel  likely  young 
un  I  allaow  them  folks  could  git,  —  it  's  a 
boy,  though.  Twuz  a  gal  yer  said  they  wuz 
wantin'?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  feeling  guilty,  but 
playing  her  game  boldly.     "It  is  a  girl  these 


ZEPH.  199 

parties  want.  I  dare  say  they  '11  find  one, 
though;  children  are  plenty  enough." 

"  More  'n  enough,  whar  they  ain't  wanted," 
replied  Gammer.  "  I  allaow  thet  's  anuther 
queer  thing  ther  Lawd  doos.  Hyar  's  these  yer 
folks  o'  yourn  huntin'  fur  a  child  ter  'dopt,  'n' 
hyar  daown  'n  this  yer  very  flairt  I  could  p'int 
yer  ter  's  many  's  twenty  houses  whar  they'd 
be  glad  'n'  thankful  ef  thar  wuz  fewer  chillen 
ter  feed  'n'  clothe.  Thet's  ther  way  'tis.  I 
allaow  't  's  cur'us.  But  I  could  n't  never  see 
haow  't  is  folks  wants  ter  'dopt  chillen.  I  allaow 
I  could  n't  dew  no  sech  thing  's  thet." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Miss  Sophy,  so  sharply 
that  Gammer  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Wall,  I  allaow  I  could  n't  jest  say  why  not," 
she  replied.  "It's  er  kind  er  feelin'  I  hev; 
'pears  like  'twould  be  a  kinder  cheatin'  natur', 
somehow,  thet  wouldn't  work." 

"  I  don't  think  so  at  all,"  answered  Miss 
Sophy.  "  It  seems  to  me  the  most  natural 


200  ZEPH. 

thing  in  the  world  for  folks  that  haven't  got 
any  child  o'  their  own,  to  adopt  one." 

"I  expect  it's  hevin'  chillen  o'  yer  own 
makes  'doptin'  'em  seem  so  cur'us,"  replied 
Gammer,  placidly;  "arter  ye  Ve  hed  'em,  I  allaow 
yer  don't  think  much  o'  'doptations.  'S  fur  's 
I'm  concerned,  I  wouldn't  durst  trust  myself 
with  other  folks's  chillen.  Chillen  ez  tryin'." 

"I  should  think  they  must  be,"  said  Miss 
Sophy,  turning  to  go,  glad  to  escape  from  the 
conversation  which  booted  nothing  and  made 
her  uncomfortable. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  she  abandoned  her  project 
as  impracticable.  It  grieved  her  sorely,  and  it 
disquieted  her  anticipations  of  the  future.  But 
she  saw  no  means,  which  she  dared  use,  of 
bringing  about  the  desired  end.  She  did  not 
stop  thinking  about  it,  however;  that  was  out 
of  her  power.  Many  a  night  she  lay  awake  far 
into  the  morning  hours  vainly  pondering,  wish 
ing,  regretting. 


ZEPH.  201 


Her  arrangements  for  leaving  were  nearly 
complete;  so  quietly  and  judiciously  had  she 
made  them,  that  few  persons  in  the  town  knew 
of  her  contemplated  change;  and  to  no  one 
except  her  minister  had  she  confided  her  inten 
tion  of  marrying  Zeph. 

"  There 's  been  talk  enough  about  his  affairs," 
she  said,  "an'  it's  nobody's  business  but  his 
and  mine  what  we  're  going  to  do."  The  mar 
riage  was  to  take  place  at  the  minister's  house, 
with  only  the  necessary  witnesses,  on  the  even 
ing  of  their  departure  from  town,  and  would 
not  be  known  until  she  and  Zeph  were  many 
miles  away.  They  were  going  to  take  the  long 
overland  journey  in  their  own  wagon,  in  com 
pany  with  a  party  of  emigrants  who  were  about 
setting  off  from  a  mining  town  a  few  hours  by 
rail  south  of  Pendar  Basin.  This  was  Zeph's 
plan.  He  had  long  desired  such  a  journey. 
When  he  proposed  it  to  Miss  Sophy,  her  first 
reply  was,  "  Mercy,  Zeph,  it'd  take  forever!  " 


202  ZEPH. 


"  Only  about  two  months,  Sophy,"  he  said 
pleadingly.  "  Two  months  out  o'  doors  every 
minute." 

"  Two  months  !  "  echoed  Miss  Sophy.  "  Is  that 
all?  Well,  I  suppose  that  'd  be  two  honeymoons 
'stead  o'  one !  "  And  in  this  view  the  prospect 
of  the  journey  grew  more  and  more  pleasing  to 
her. 

It  only  lacked  a  week  of  the  day  fixed  for 
starting.  Greenhills  was  sold,  and  well  sold, 
and  the  money  in  the  bank,  —  quite  enough  to 
buy  the  new  ranch  in  California,  or  wherever  they 
might  determine  to  live.  The  people  who  had 
bought  Miss  Sophy's  boarding-house,  furniture, 
good-will,  and  so  forth,  had  arrived  and  taken 
possession,  the  transfer  being  made  with  sur 
prisingly  little  jar  to  the  household.  "  It 's  easy 
enough  to  do  anything  if  you  once  set  about  it," 
said  Miss  Sophy,  never  suspecting  how  uncom 
mon  was  the  executive  force  within  her  which 
made  all  the  difference  in  the  world  in  the  way 


ZEPH.  203 

of  u  setting  about "  things.  It  seemed  odd  to  her 
to  be  a  boarder  in  her  own  home  ;  and  the  hours 
hung  so  heavily  on  her  hands  that  she  more  than 
once  wished  that  she  was  at  liberty  to  go  into 
the  kitchen  and  cook  the  dinner.  Zeph  was  away. 
He  had  gone  to  make  the  arrangements  for  their 
wagon  journey,  to  have  everything  in  readiness, 
so  that  their  wagons  might  be  in  waiting  for 
them  at  the  railway  station  where  they  would 
leave  the  cars.  When  this  plan  was  made,  it  had 
not  occurred  to  Miss  Sophy  that  it  would  dis 
tress  her  to  be  separated  from  Zeph  for  a  few 
days ;  but  she  was  finding  it  intolerable.  Except 
for  sheer  shame,  she  would  have  followed  him. 
Her  mind  continually  reverted  to  the  grief  of 
her  youth,  the  death  of  her  first  lover.  "  Folks 
that  belongs  to  each  other  hain't  got  any  busi 
ness  takin'  such  risks,"  she  soliloquized.  "  If 
there  was  anythin'  to  happen  to  Zeph,  an'  me 
not  there,  I  'd  never  get  over  it,  never.  If  I 
was  to  lose  him  as  I  did  Robert,  I  do  believe  it 


204  ZEPH. 


would  kill  me  dead."  Fiercely  she  taunted  her 
self  with  being  silly;  but  her  heart  got  the  better 
of  her  common  sense  in  every  such  argument, 
and  she  grew  unhappier  hour  by  hour.  In  this 
morbid  mood  her  thoughts  also  dwelt  more  and 
more  on  the  separation  which  was  coming  be 
tween  Zeph  and  his  children,  and  her  doubts 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  as  to  the  possibility 
of  his  being  happy  away  from  them.  "  And  if 
he  ain't,  that  'd  be  worse  than  seein'  him  dead,  a 
long  ways,"  said  the  miserable  Miss  Sophy,  tor 
turing  herself  to  no  purpose,  and  fighting  vainly 
against  the  pricks  on  all  sides.  "  I  'd  lots  better 
gone  off  an'  left  him  here  to  shift  for  himself. 
Well,  there's  one  thing;  if  worst  comes  to  worst, 
he  can  come  back.  I  sha'n't  keep  any  man  from 
doin'  what  he  thinks  's  right." 

But  fate  had  better  things  in  store  for  Miss 
Sophy  than  she  dreamed.  One  night,  as  she  had 
just  fallen  into  an  uneasy  sleep  after  lying  awake 
for  hours  grappling  with  these  anxieties,  she  was 


ZEPH.  205 

roused  by  the  sharp  ringing  of  the  fire-bells. 
Springing  from  her  bed,  she  saw  the  whole 
southern  sky  aglow,  heard  the  sounds  of  tramp 
ling  feet  and  hoarse  cries.  In  a  moment  she 
was  dressed  and  at  her  door.  Men  and  women 
were  running  breathlessly  past.  In  Pendar  Basin 
everybody  went  to  fires ;  it  was  simply  a  duty 
of  good-fellowship,  for  their  one  fire-engine  was 
none  too  good,  and  the  company  but  poorly 
trained ;  and  every  hand,  even  a  woman's  hand, 
counted,  when  it  came  to  passing  up  buckets 
in  line. 

"Where  is  it?  What  is  it?"  cried  Miss 
Sophy. 

Nobody  knew.  "  The  depot,"  said  one.  "  The 
hotel,"  said  another.  Nobody  stopped  to  make 
sure,  or  to  answer  again;  the  ruddy  sheets  of 
flame  rolled  up  fiercer  and  faster ;  the  bells  rang 
harder.  A  terrible  thing  is  a  midnight  fire,  even 
where  the  best  appliances  of  a  city  are  close 
at  hand ;  but  in  a  country  village  it  seems  far 


206  ZEPH. 


crueller, — almost  like  a  personal  enemy  come  to 
slay  the  helpless  in  their  sleep. 

Suddenly  Miss  Sophy  caught  sound  of 
another  word.  "  The  Star  restaurant  '11  go, 
sure,"  said  one  of  the  panting  runners  as  he 
went  by. 

"  My  God  !  "  cried  Miss  Sophy  aloud ;  and 
clasping  her  hands  she  ran  bareheaded  into 
the  street  and  looked  up  to  the  reddening 
sky.  At  that  instant  she  felt  her  arm  grasped 
violently. 

"  Thet  restaurant 's  a  gwine,  whar  she  ez ;  it 
ez  er  judgment  on  'em,  I  allow  't  is  ! "  cried 
Gammer  Stein.  "  Come  on,  come  on  !  I  expect 
thet  Zeph's  thar;  he'll  gin  his  life  fur  her  ef 
she 's  in  ther  fire !  " 

"  He  won't  do  any  such  thing !  "  cried  Miss 
Sophy,  angrily,  forgetting  herself,  and  turning 
on  Gammer.  "  He  ain't  here;  he's  been  gone 
three  days  ! "  and  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving 
went  up  from  her  heart.  What  a  mercy  was 


ZEPH.  207 


this !  How  should  she  be  thankful  enough ! 
"  Thank  God,  thank  God !  "  she  said  in  her 
heart,  as  hand  in  hand  with  Gammer  she  ran 
towards  the  fire. 

It  was  indeed  the  Star  restaurant  that  was 
"  going,"  —  going  fast.  The  flames  had  already 
burst  out  of  one  spot  in  the  roof ;  figures 
like  black  imps  were  seen  flying  past  the 
windows;  the  crowd  surged  around  the  house, 
helplessly  ;  shrieks,  oaths,  commands,  confused 
calls,  —  all  were  blent  in  a  terrible  din,  which 
heightened  the  horror  of  the  black  rolling 
columns  of  smoke  and  fire  pouring  from  the 
windows.  Vainly  the  little  engine  threw  its 
feeble  stream  into  the  blazing  mass.  It  quelled 
the  flame  for  a  second,  only  to  let  it  leap  up 
fiercer  in  a  new  spot. 

In  a  terrible  fascination  Miss  Sophy  and 
Gammer  pressed  closer,  nearer,  —  Miss  Sophy 
clutching  Gammer's  hand  in  a  frenzy  of  excite 
ment.  "Oh,  where  are  the  children?  Who  's 


208  ZEPH, 


seen  the  children?  Has  anybody  seen  the  chil 
dren  ? "  she  shrieked. 

"  Burnt  in  their  beds,  I  reckon,"  said  one. 
"  T  ain't  ten  minutes  since  the  fire  burst  out,  'n' 
look  't  that  roof;  it 's  ready  to  fall  in  now !  " 

"  Thet  's  him  !  thet  's  Nat,"  said  Gammer, 
pointing  to  a  man,  blackened  with  smoke, 
leaping  from  the  door,  bearing  a  desk  in  his 
hands ;  back  again  into  the  flames,  spite  of  the 
warning  cries  of  the  crowd  ;  back,  and  out 
again,  —  not  a  drop  of  coward  blood  in  Nat 
Leeson's  bad  heart!  At  that  moment,  just  as 
Miss  Sophy  had  fastened  her  eyes  on  his  face, 
a  scream  rang  out  close  beside  her,  —  a  scream 
that  no  one  who  heard  it  ever  forgot :  "  Nat ! 
Nat!  where 's  the  baby?"  And  more  like  some 
swift  flying  creature  than  like  a  human  being 
there  came,  parting  the  crowd  right  and  left,  as 
if  they  had  been  straws  in  her  way,  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  uttering  shriek  after  shriek.  Men 
tried  to  grasp  her  by  the  arm  to  hold  her  back. 


ZEPH.  209 

They  could  no  more  grasp  her  than  they  could 
grasp  the  flames  themselves.  "  Nat  !  Nat  ! 
where  's  the  baby?  "  she  shrieked.  "  Oh,  God  ! 
save  my  baby !  Zephie  !  Zephie  !  "  Over  and 
above  all  the  din  Nat  heard  the  cry ;  and  mad 
dened  as  he  was  by  terror  and  loss,  the  words 
seemed  to  turn  him  into  a  fiend.  As  she 
reached  him  he  pushed  her  back,  shouting 
hoarsely,  "Damn  your  brat!  let  it  burn  !  Good 
riddance  !  "  A  cry  of  "  Shame  !  shame  !  "  went 
up,  but  there  was  time  for  no  further  retribu 
tion.  The  flames  were  licking  out  of  the  win 
dows  now,  and  running  up  the  outside  walls. 
A  few  minutes  would  see  all  over.  The  crowd 
swept  back  a  little. 

"  Mam,  here 's  baby,"  cried  a  shrill,  quavering 
voice ;  and  out  of  the  smoke,  out  of  the  flame, 
past  the  raging  Nat,  who  did  not  even  see  him, 
tottered  Zephie,  bearing  the  baby  in  his  arms. 
There  went  up  a  cheer,  a  short  one,  indeed,  for 
the  men's  voices  broke.  They  closed  round  the 
14 


210  ZEPH. 

boy,  took  the  baby,  lifted  her  ;  took  Zephie, 
lifted  him.  Nobody  thought  any  longer  of  the 
burning  house  ;  let  it  go ;  here  were  the  chil 
dren.  But  where  was  the  mother?  It  was 
some  minutes  before  she  was  found.  As  she 
tossed  her  arms  in  despair  at  her  husband's 
brutal  answer  to  her  cry,  merciful  unconscious 
ness  had  seized  her,  and  she  wavered  and  fell, — 
fell,  by  the  strangest  of  chances,  into  the  arms 
of  Gammer  Stein,  who  had  pressed  on  closely 
after  her,  expecting,  as  she  afterwards  confessed, 
to  see  her  plunge  into  the  burning  building  and 
be  devoured  by  the  flames. 

"  An'  I  allaow  I  wuz  er  thinkin'  ez  haow 
the  Lawd  hed  erpinted  thet  ther  fire  ez  er 
jedgment,"  she  said,  "  V  the  next  I  knowed, 
thar  she  wuz,  ther  pore  cretur,  a  settlin'  down 
agen  me,  'n'  er  swayin'  back  'n'  forth,  'n'  's 
soon  's  I  ketched  her  I  seen  she  wuz  in  er 
dead  faint;  'n'  I  allaow  ter  yeow  it  kind  er 
fetched  me  raound,  skeered,  's  ef  ther  Lawd 


ZEPH.  211 

hed  tuk  me  ter  witness  he  wa'n't  plum  done 
aout  wi'  Rushy  Riker  yit  !  " 

It  was  surely  a  strange  chance  which  put  into 
the  hands  of  Gammer  Stein  and  Miss  Sophy 
the  joint  labor  of  restoring  the  woman  to  con 
sciousness.  When  at  last  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  saw  Zephie  in  a  chair  opposite  her,  with 
the  child  in  his  arms,  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
head,  and  cried  out  pitifully,  "  Be  we  dead  ? 
Where's  Nat?" 

"  No,  no,  mam,"  cried  Zephie,  holding  the 
baby  out  to  her,  "  we  ain't  none  of  us  dead  ! 
The  house  's  all  burnt  up,  but  we  got  out  I 
brought  Rushy  downstairs  myself,  'n'  the  stairs 
was  a  blazin'  under  me ;  donno  how  I  ever  did 
it;  but  she  never  so  much  's  kicked  nor  hollered. 
If  she  had,  I  'd  a  dropped  her  sure." 

"Your  husband  is  safe  too,"  said  Miss 
Sophy,  with  a  not  wholly  kindly  emphasis. 
Miss  Sophy  was  very  human. 

Snatching  the  baby  from  Zephie's  arms  and 


212  ZEPH. 

straining  it  to  her  bosom,  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro,  looking  up  into  Gammer  Stein's  face  wildly, 
Rushy  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  he  'd  burned  up  !  I 
never  want  to  set  my  eyes  on  him  again !  " 

"  'Sh,  'sh!"  exclaimed  Gammer;  "ye  donno 
what  ye  're  sayin'." 

"  Did  ye  hear  what  he  said  to  me,  then?" 
cried  Rushy,  bursting  into  a  flood  of  hysterical 
crying.  "  He  meant  to  let  the  children  burn 
up.  He  set  it  afire  hisself.  That's  what  he 
sent  me  out  o'  the  house  for  last  night." 

Horror-stricken,  Gammer  threw  up  her  hands. 
Miss  Sophy  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  listen 
ing  intently.  They  were  alone  with  her. 

"  I  wish  God  may  strike  me  dead,"  cried  the 
raving  woman,  "  if  I  don't  believe  it !  I  '11  never 
go  nigh  him  again,  never!  'Twas  to  get  rid  o' 
the  children  he  did  it !  " 

"  Rushy  Riker  !  "  exclaimed  Gammer,  and 
the  old  woman  drew  herself  up  till  her  gaunt 
figure  seemed  preternaturally  tall,  and,  spite  of 


ZEPH.  213 

her  uncouth  language,  her  utterance  had  the 
dignity  of  inspiration,  —  "  Rushy  Riker  !  yeow 
jest  shet  yer  mouth,  an'  don't  yeow  tempt  ther 
Lawd  ter  strike  yer  dead,  blasphemin'  thet  way. 
Yeow  air  plum  crazy,  thet's  what  yer  air.  Yer 
know  Nat  Leeson,  bad's  he  ez,  never  done 
nothin'  er  ther  kind.  The  Lawd  's  gin  yer  both 
yer  chillen  safe  'n'  sound,  'n'  ye  'd  better  git 
daown  'n  yer  knees  'n'  be  thankful,  'n'  begin  ter 
lead  ther  life  ye  'd  oughter.  'T  ain't  tew  late 
yit.  Yer  young;  'n'  I  allaow  the  Lawd 's  er 
dealin'  'th  yeow  powerful." 

Rushy's  great  black  eyes  fastened  on  Gam 
mer's  face  fiercely ;  the  tears  stopped  ;  sobs 
shook  her,  but  she  did  not  speak.  The  baby, 
terrified,  began  to  cry.  Hushing  her  tenderly, 
cooing  over  her,  caressing  her,  Rushy,  with  a 
swiftly  changing  face,  began  again  to  weep,  but 
softly,  as  if  she  feared  to  terrify  the  child. 

"  I  expect  I  was  kind  o'  crazy,"  she  muttered, 
"  but  't  aint  strange." 


214  ZEPH. 


"  No,"  said  Gammer  gently,  "  't  ain't  strange  ! 
We  '11  be  gwine  naow ;  yer  better  alone.  Ther 
folks  'n  this  house  said  yer  could  hev  this 
room  till  yer  got  time  ter  look  raound,  yeow 
'n'  yer  —  yeow  'n'  Nat!"  Gammer  could  not 
bring  herself  to  speak  the  word  "  husband " 
in  that  connection.  "  Come,  Miss  Burr,"  she 
added,  touching  Miss  Sophy  on  the  shoulder, 
"we'll  be  gwine;  we  can't  do  nothin'  more 
fur  'er." 

Miss  Sophy  did  not  stir.  She  was  gazing 
fixedly  at  Zephie.  The  child  had  thrown  him 
self  on  the  floor,  and  was  lying  with  his  eyes 
shut.  "  Look  at  him  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  Dew  yer  feel  bad,  Zephie?  "  asked  Gammer. 
He  did  not  answer.  Bending  over  him,  she  ex 
claimed  :  "  Ef  thet  ain't  cur'us  !  He  's  sleepin' ! 
Ain't  thet  a  mercy,  naow,  he  kin?"  And  again 
she  drew  Miss  Sophy  away. 

Shaking  off  the  old  woman's  hand,  Miss  Sophy 
stepped  nearer  to  the  bed,  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Lee- 


ZEPH.  21 5 

son,  I  'd  like  to  see  you  to-morrow  morning. 
Will  you  be  here?  " 

"  Who  be  ye?"  asked  Rushy,  half  defiantly, 
with  a  distrustful  glance.  "  I  s'pose  I  '11  be 
here." 

"  My  name  is  Burr,"  answered  Miss  Sophy, 
slowly.  "  You  do  not  know  me,  I  suppose." 

"That  keeps  boarders?"  asked  Rushy. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  trembling. 

"I  know  where  yer  place  is,"  answered 
Rushy,  indifferently,  "  'n'  my  husband  that  was, 
he  's  been  workin'  for  you,  I  heered.  You  was 
the  fust  one  't  ever  got  any  work  out  o'  him,  I 
heered  say." 

Miss  Sophy's  face  grew  hard.  It  was  well 
that  the  light  was  dim.  She  clenched  her  hands 
as  she  replied  coldly,  nerving  herself  by  the 
thought  of  the  purpose  she  had  in  view,  "  He 
did  all  the  work  which  he  did  for  me  very  well." 

"Ain't  he  workin'  on  your  ranch  now?" 
asked  Rushy. 


216  ZEPH. 


"  No,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  thankful  for  the  form 
of  the  question.  "  I  Ve  sold  my  ranch." 

"  A  good  while  'fore  Zeph  Riker  '11  get  such 
another  job  !  "  said  Rushy,  vindictively. 

Again  Miss  Sophy  clenched  her  hands  and 
held  herself  calm.  For  Zeph's  sake  nothing 
was  too  much  to  be  borne.  For  the  stake  for 
which  she  was  playing  now  she  could  afford 
to  strain  every  nerve. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  under  all  her  excitement 
taking  a  certain  grim  satisfaction  in  the  artful 
wording  of  her  reply.  "  Yes,  I  think  it  will  be. 
But  I  will  see  you  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Leeson. 
There 's  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"  All  right,"  said  Rushy,  without  a  gleam  of 
curiosity  in  her  face.  The  reaction  after  her 
terrible  shock  was  setting  in ;  a  stupor  was  fast 
stealing  over  her. 

Miss  Sophy's  heart  was  beating  high.  She 
had  hard  work  to  keep  from  telling  her  project 
to  Gammer  Stein,  but  she  refrained. 


ZEPH. 


"  Time  enough  if  it  succeeds,"  she  said.  "  But 
it  will !  I  know  it  will !  " 

Miss  Sophy  had  watched  Rushy's  face  closely 
while  Gammer  was  upbraiding  her  for  her  ac 
cusation  against  Nat.  She  had  seen  the  swift 
look  of  terror  there,  followed  by  dogged  resolve, 
as  she  regained  partial  composure.  Miss  Sophy 
did  not  believe  that  the  woman  had  been  crazy 
when  she  uttered  that  accusation,  or  that  she 
thought  herself  to  have  been  so.  Miss  Sophy 
believed  it  true ;  and  if  this  were  so,  the  very 
strength  of  the  poor  creature's  maternal  affec 
tion,  which  had  hitherto  been  the  barrier  to  the 
carrying  out  of  Miss  Sophy's  project,  would  be 
its  surest  aid. 

Minute  by  minute  all  through  the  lingering 
darkness  Miss  Sophy  watched  for  the  dawn. 
As  soon  as  it  was  fairly  light,  she  took  her  way 
to  the  house.  She  reckoned,  and  rightly,  that 
she  would  find  Rushy  alone.  As  she  passed 
the  still  smouldering  ruins  of  the  restaurant  she 


218 


ZEPH. 


recognized  Nat  working  there  with  a  hopeless 
sort  of  fury  in  his  motions,  dragging  out  bits 
of  iron  and  half-burnt  timbers.  It  seemed  a 
mockery  that  the  chimney  was  left  standing, 
and  projecting  from  it  a  grate  half  full  of  coal 
and  ashes,  the  remains  of  the  last  home-fire 
lighted  on  that  ill-fated  hearth.  While  she  stood 
gazing  at  this,  Nat  pried  the  grate  out  with  an 
iron  bar;  as  it  fell,  his  face  was  convulsed  with 
rage,  and  he  poured  out  a  volley  of  oaths  which 
made  Miss  Sophy's  heart  stand  still. 

"  It  was  true  !  I  believe  it !  "  she  gasped,  as 
she  quickened  her  pace,  and  did  not  once  look 
back  till  she  reached  Rushy's  bedside. 

In  the  white,  haggard  face  which  looked  up 
from  the  pillow  half-inquiring,  half-alarmed,  at 
Miss  Sophy,  there  were  few  traces  left  of  the 
beauty  which  had  been  so  fatal  a  lure  to  Zeph 
in  days  gone  by.  The  year  of  hard  work,  and 
still  more  of  suffering  which  she  had  been  too 
proud  to  betray,  had  told  upon  Rushy  sadly. 


ZEPH.  219 


And  this  last  night  with  its  anguish,  its  dire  se 
cret,  its  shock,  —  this  had  completed  the  wreck. 
She  had  almost  the  look  of  a  dying  woman. 
Placid,  rosy,  fast  asleep  on  her  arm,  lay  the 
child  over  whose  destiny  forces  strangely  con 
flicting  were  now  coming  together. 

Miss  Sophy  was  a  keen  reader  of  faces.  As 
she  met  Rushy's  first  glance  she  perceived  in  it  a 
defined  terror.  Rushy  was  indeed  in  an  agony 
of  apprehension  lest  the  words  she  had  spoken 
in  her  frenzy  would  be  used  to  work  harm  to  Nat. 
She  was  rent  between  her  still  passionate  love 
for  him  and  her  mighty  love  for  her  children. 

On  the  instant  Miss  Sophy  changed  her  entire 
plan  of  approach.  This  terror  should  be  made 
to  play  into  her  hands. 

"  Mrs.  Leeson,"  she  said  gravely,  "  I  came 
down  so  early  to  be  sure  of  seeing  you  before 
any  one  else  did.  I  suppose  you  remember 
what  you  said  last  night  about  your  husband's 
having  set  his  place  on  fire?  I  think  no  one 


220  ZEPH. 


heard  you  except  Gammer  and  me;  but  we 
both  heard  you." 

Rushy's  eyes  dilated  with  horror.  "  I  was 
crazy  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  was  out  o'  my  head  !  I  did 
n't  mean  no  such  thing!  Gammer  said  I  was 
crazy.  She  knows  Nat  would  n't  do  such  a  thing." 

"  I  suppose  you  did  not  know,"  continued 
Miss  Sophy,  eying  her  steadily,  —  no  mercy  in 
Miss  Sophy's  heart  now,— "that  I  owned  the 
bakery  next  your  restaurant?" 

"  No  !  Did  ye?  "  gasped  Rushy.  "  Oh,  Miss 
Burr,  don't  ye  tell  on  me !  I  swear  to  God  it 
wa'n't  true  !  I  did  n't  know  I  said  it !  Oh,  have 
some  mercy  on  me,  won't  ye?  Nat  'd  kill  me 
in  a  minute  if  ever  he  was  to  hear  't  I  'd  said 
such  a  word.  He  never  did  it,  Miss  Burr, 
never !  Nat  's  real  good,  he  is ;  only  jest  hasty, 
that's  all.  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  ma'am,  don't 
you  go  to  tell  it !  "  And  in  anguish  too  great 
for  tears  Rushy  threw  herself  back  on  the  bed 
and  groaned  aloud. 


ZEPH.  221 


"  I  had  no  idea  of  telling  it,  Mrs.  Leeson," 
said  Miss  Sophy.  "  It  was  not  for  that  I  came. 
The  property  was  not  much  injured,  and  I  am 
going  away.  I  did  n't  care  a  fig  for  the  build 
ing.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  did  come  for." 
Miss  Sophy  hesitated,  bent  over  the  bed,  whis 
pering  low,  "  I  am  certain  you  spoke  the  truth 
about  Nat's  setting  that  fire.  I  '11  never  forget 
your  scream,  never;  an'  I  said  to  myself, 
*  There's  a  woman  would  be  glad  to  get  her 
child  out  o'  that  man's  way  if  she  could.' " 
Again  Miss  Sophy  paused.  Rushy's  eyes  trans 
fixed  her.  Confession,  awe,  yearning,  surren 
der,  were  in  them. 

"Oh!  what  be  ye?"  she  said  faintly.  "Ye 
scare  me!  What  d'  ye  mean?" 

Miss  Sophy  never  could  remember  distinctly 
the  rest  of  the  conversation,  —  how  she  gradu 
ally  made  clear  to  Rushy  her  own  wish  to  adopt 
a  child ;  her  sudden  desire  the  night  before  to 
take  the  little  one  whose  life  had  been  thus 


222  ZEPH. 


endangered  by  her  stepfather's  crime ;  her  feel 
ing  that  she  had  been  sent  to  the  fire  for  this 
very  purpose.  The  words  seemed  to  come  to 
her  as  from  some  power  outside  herself;  and  as 
she  spoke,  the  mother's  heart  seemed  melted ; 
tears  like  rain  ran  down  her  face.  Wringing  her 
hands,  she  said  again  and  again,  "  I  can't !  Oh, 
I  can't  never  let  her  go ;  I  'd  die  without  her !  " 
And  yet  again  and  again  she  returned  to  the 
point,  groaning,  "  But  I  darst  n't  keep  her !  I 
darst  n't !  I  donno  why  I  trust  ye  so,  ma'am, 
but  I  can't  help  it !  I  know  ye  won't  do  me  no 
harm ;  I  Ve  heard  lots  about  ye,  how  good  ye 
was  to  everybody,  'n'  I  know  ye  're  rich  !  Oh, 
I  '11  never  forgive  myself  if  I  stand  'n  the  child's 
light  'n'  keep  her  out  o'  all  ye  'd  do  for  her;  'n' 
I  '11  die  if  I  let  her  go  out  o'  my  sight !  'n'  there 
't  is  !  "  It  was  a  terrible  struggle.  More  than 
once  Miss  Sophy  was  on  the  point  of  abandon 
ing  it.  All  seemed  lost.  Once  she  rose  to  go. 
But  Rushy  clutched  her  gown  and  cried,  "  Don't 


ZEPH.  223 

ye  go  !  don't  go  !  I  hain't  made  my  mind  up  ! 
I  can't !  If  it  wa'n't  for  fearin'  she  ain't  safe  I 
could  n't !  But  oh,  if  anythin'  did  happen  to  her 
here,  I  'd  die  !  I  donno  why  Nat  hates  her  so ; 
he  's  real  good  to  Zephie ;  allers  has  been ;  but 
ever  sence  we  was  married  he  's  seemed  to  hate 
the  sight  o'  baby.  I  suppose  it 's  hard  on  a  man 
to  take  to  another  man's  children;  but  there's 
Zephie,  just  the  same,  an'  he  's  fond  o'  him." 

Finally  the  storm-tossed  creature  said :  "  You 
send  Gammer  here ;  I  '11  talk  it  over  with  her. 
I  'm  spent.  I  can't  think  no  longer !  Gammer 
knows  ye  real  well ;  if  she  says  it'll  be  right,  I  '11 
do  it !  I  'm  thankful  ye  're  goin'  way  off;  that 's 
the  only  way  I  'd  stand  it 't  all.  It  '11  be  just  same 
's  ef  she  was  dead ;  'n'  that 's  the  way  I  want  it 
to  be  !  I  could  n't  give  her  up  no  other  way  !  " 

Still  the  baby  slept  on,  placid,  unconscious. 
As  Miss  Sophy  turned  to  go,  she  bent  down 
and  kissed  its  forehead.  "  She  is  a  most  beau 
tiful  child,"  she  said.  "  I  love  her  already." 


224  ZEPH. 


"  Oh,  ye  'd  be  good  to  her  always,  always,  's 
long  's  ye  live,  and  leave  her  safe  'n'  comfort 
able !  Oh,  swear  it,  won't  ye?"  cried  Rushy, 
hysterically.  Then  with  a  fresh  outburst  of 
crying,  her  words  hardly  articulate,  she  sobbed, 
"  Should  ye  want  her  to  call  ye  mammy?  She 's 
just  beginnin'  to  say  it  this  last  month  or  two ; 
p'r'aps  ye  might  let  her  call  ye  aunt,  or  suthin' 
else  besides  mammy !  " 

The  anguish  in  the  mother's  voice  as  she  said 
this  touched  a  chord  in  Miss  Sophy's  breast 
that  had  never  before  vibrated.  As  tenderly 
and  understandingly  as  if  she  herself  had  borne 
children,  she  answered,  "Don't  you  think  it 
would  be  best  for  her  to  call  me  mother?  You 
would  n't  want  her  to  grow  up  thinking  she  had 
no  mother !  " 

"  No,  no  !  I  s'pose  she  must  call  ye  mammy. 
Oh,  I  donno  but  I  wish  she  was  dead  now! 
Oh,  ma'am,  don't  ye  be  angry  with  me !  You 
go  away  now.  I  can't  talk  to  ye  a  minute 


ZEPH.  225 


longer.  Send  Gammer ;  she'll  come.  She  hates 
me,  but  she  's  good  ;  she  '11  come  ;  she  '11  tell 
me.  When  are  ye  going?" 

"  To-morrow  night." 

"  I  'm  glad  it's  so  soon,  —  that  is,  if  I  'm  goin' 
to  do  it.  If  I  was  to  think  it  over  'n'  over 
weeks,  I  should  n't  know  no  better  't  the  end ; 
I  'd  ruther  she  'd  go  't  oncet.  Gammer  '11  bring 
her  ter  ye.  She  always  goes  to  Gammer, 
Zephie  says.  He  takes  her  up  there  sometimes 
Sundays.  I  expect  -  "  Rushy  paused.  Miss 
Sophy's  instinct  filled  up  the  interval.  It  was 
of  Zeph  Rushy  was  thinking.  Spite  of  Miss 
Sophy's  steady  nerves,  she  trembled  now.  "  He 
hain't  got  no  right,  anyhow,"  Rushy  muttered 
to  herself.  "  The  judge  giv'  'em  to  me." 

"  Thar  'd  have  to  be  papers,  would  n't  there?  " 
she  said,  looking  up  furtively,  "so  there  couldn't 
nobody  else  get  her  away  from  you  ?  " 

Miss   Sophy's   heart  bounded.     She   made   a 
feint  of  stooping  to  pick  up  something  from  the 
15 


226  ZEPH. 


floor  to  hide  her  exultation.  The  words,  "  and 
mine  enemy  was  my  helper,"  flashed  across  her 
thoughts. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "  that  would  be  better. 
I  will  send  them  to  you  by  Gammer.  I  '11  have 
a  lawyer  draw  them  up,  so  they  will  be  all  right ; 
and  if  you  make  up  your  mind  to  do  it,  you 
can  sign  them,  and  give  them  to  Gammer  with 
the  baby,  and  I  '11  have  Gammer  go  with  me 
part  way  till  the  baby's  used  to  me." 

"  Swear !  swear !  "  shrieked  Rushy,  snatching 
Miss  Sophy's  hand,  fastening  her  wild  eyes 
on  her  face.  "  Oh,  swear  to  me,  here  'n' 
now,  she  'd  be  t'  ye  the  same  's  yer  own! 
Swear !  " 

"So  help  me  God,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  tears 
on  her  cheeks  and  her  voice  faltering,  "she 
shall  be  to  me  the  same  's  my  own." 

"  I  believe  ye !  "  gasped  Rushy,  half  fainting 
from  her  fierce  struggle.  "  I  believe  ye !  I 
don't  never  want  to  see  ye  agen,  though  !  Don't 


ZEPH.  227 


ye  come  back  here.  Send  Gammer.  If  I  '11  do 
it,  Gammer  '11  bring  the  baby  to  your  house. 
If  I  don't  do  't,  I  don't  never  want  to  be  asked 
no  more  !  Be  ye  sure  ye  're  goin'  to-morrow 
night  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"South?     The  south-goin'  train?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miss  Sophy,  suddenly  alive 
to  a  new  danger,  and  perceiving  as  suddenly 
how  it  could  be  averted.  "Yes,  I  am  going 
on  the  south-bound  train." 

"  Send  Gammer  quick,"  was  Rushy's  only 
answer;  and  she  closed  her  eyes  exhausted. 

Even  in  this  final  crisis  Miss  Sophy  did 
not  confide  to  Gammer  her  relation  to  Zeph. 
"What  folks  don't  know,  they  can't  let  out," 
had  been  Miss  Sophy's  motto  all  her  life,  and  it 
stood  her  in  good  stead  now.  Except  for  this 
reticence,  her  plans  at  the  last  moment  might 
have  miscarried  disastrously.  All  that  Gammer 
knew  when  she  set  out  on  her  strange  embassy 


228  ZEPH. 

was  simply  what  had  already  been  said  by  Miss 
Sophy  herself  to  Rushy.  In  her  pocket  she 
carried  the  papers,  made  out  in  due  form,  by 
the  signing  of  which  the  legal  adoption  of  the 
child  would  be  put  forever  beyond  question  or 
revocal. 

"An'  I  allaow  she'll  sign  'em  fast  enough, 
I  allaow  she  will  ef  't  is  ez  she  sez,  accordin'  ter 
what  I  'd  Vise  her  ter  dew.  Ther  ain't  no  tew 
sides  ter  ther  thing;  ther  ez  ter  most  things; 
but  I  allaow  ther  ain't  ter  this,"  said  Gammer, 
as  she  bade  Miss  Sophy  good-by  and  set  out 
on  her  errand. 

It  was  arranged  between  them  that  if  Gammer 
obtained  the  child  she  would  pass  Miss  Sophy's 
house  on  her  way  home,  Miss  Sophy  watching 
at  the  window  to  see  if  she  had  been  successful. 
In  that  case  Gammer  was  to  keep  the  child 
with  her  until  the  next  evening,  when  she  would 
bring  her  to  the  train,  joining  Miss  Sophy  there 
at  the  last  moment.  Miss  Sophy's  brain  ached 


ZEPPL  229 

with  all  this  plotting  and  planning,  so  foreign 
to  her  straightforward  nature.  She  felt  dis 
graced  in  her  own  eyes  by  so  much  conceal 
ment.  "Lord  knows  I'll  be  thankful  to  get 
done  with  all  this  coverin'-up  business,"  she 
reflected.  "  It 's  a  new  trade  for  me ;  but  then, 
I  'm  takin'  up  a  new  trade  altogether/'  —  and 
her  face  softened  into  a  younger  look  at  the 
very  thought.  "  It 's  all  for  his  sake  I  'm  doin' 
it.  Once  we're  out  o'  this  country  'n'  settled 
down,  it  won't  seem  nothin'  at  all;  'n'  I  know 
't's  right!  that's  one  comfort." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  Gammer, 
equipped  with  the  paper  ready  for  Rushy's  sig 
nature,  and  already  signed  by  Miss  Sophy,  set 
out  on  her  exciting  errand.  Never  before  in 
Gammer's  life  had  she  been  called  upon  to  take 
part  in  such  stirring  events.  But  she  bore  her 
self  like  a  veteran,  and  had  no  misgivings  as 
to  the  success  of  the  enterprise.  The  only  thing 
that  puzzled  her  was  the  mysterious  secrecy  in 


230  ZEPH. 


which  Miss  Sophy  insisted  on  wrapping  the 
whole  affair. 

"  Thar  ain't  no  disgrace  'n  'doptin'  er  child," 
she  reflected.  "I  allaow  't  's  ter  ennybody's 
cheeriterble  credit  ter  feel  ter  dew  it;  but  Miss 
Burr  ez  fur  coverin'  't  up  ez  much  ez  ef  't  wuz 
er  case  er  stealin'.  I  allaow  she 's  drefful  afeard 
o'  folks  talkin',  bein'  an  old  maid  's  she  ez ;  'n' 
thar  's  plenty  't  would  talk,  'n'  kinder  larf ;  folks 
ez  jest  mean  enuf.  It 's  different,  her  bein'  'n 
old  maid.  Naow  ef  'twuz  me,  nobody 'd  say  er 
word.  Old  maids  hez  er  hard  time,  ennyway; 
'pears  like  thar  shet  out  er  lots  o'  things,  'sides 
not  hevin'  no  man  o'  ther  own." 

The  minutes  seemed  hours  to  Miss  Sophy 
as  she  sat  at  her  window  gazing  down  the  street 
by  which  Gammer  would  return.  The  sun  went 
slowly  down  toward  the  mountain-tops,  reached 
them,  seemed  to  linger  a  moment,  then  sank, 
and  was  gone;  then  the  slow  twilight  passed, 
and  dusky  gloom  settled  on  the  little  town. 


ZEPH.  231 


There  was  no  moon ;  Miss  Sophy  could  see  but 
a  few  paces  beyond  her  gate.  No  Gammer 
yet! 

She  could  not  bear  it.  Throwing  a  shawl 
over  her  head,  she  stole  out  and  paced  up  and 
down  in  the  path.  At  last  she  saw  the  tall 
figure  looming  up  in  the  distance,  walking  with 
a  swift  stride,  —  too  swift  to  be  the  step  of  one 
carrying  the  burden  of  a  heavy  child. 

Miss  Sophy  stood  still.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
that  the  old  woman's  arms  were  empty,  she  ran 
forward,  exclaiming  under  her  breath,  "  Would 
n't  she  do  it?  Oh,  what  shall  I  do!  What 
shall  I  do  !  " 

"  Hesh,  naow,"  said  Gammer,  as  composedly 
as  if  it  were  an  every-day  transaction  over 
which  Miss  Sophy  excited  herself  unnecessarily. 
"  Don'  git  yerself  inter  er  fever  !  She  's  gwine 
ter;  she's  signed;  but  she  don't  want  ter  giv 
her  up  till  ther  last  minute;  she  wants  ter  fix 
her  up;  she  hain't  got  no  does  fit  ter  go  in, 


ZEPH. 


she  sez.  I  declar  ter  yeow,  Miss  Burr,  I  did  n't 
never  allaow  ter  feel  ez  near  kind  ter  Rushy 
Riker  ez  I  dew.  Thet  's  what  's  kep'  me.  'T 
seemed  ter  kind  er  dew  her  sum  good  ter  talk. 
She  sed  she  allers  knowed  I  war  daown  on  her, 
an'  I  war;  but  she  's  broke  naow.  But  ez  I  ben 
tellin'  her,  she  's  made  her  bed  V  she  's  got  ter 
lay  in  't,  this  time;  'n'  I  allaow  it's  a  hard  un. 
She  's  'feard  's  death  o'  thet  Nat,  —  'feard  's 
death;  V  yit  she  kinder  doos  love  him  tew; 
she  won't  never  leave  him  ser  long  's  the  breath 
er  life  's  in  her  body;  she  darst  n't;  she  sez  he  'd 
kill  ennybody  in  a  minnit,  'n'  not  mean  ter, 
nuther  ;  when  he  's  inter  his  rages  he  donno 
nothin'.  I  allaow  she  's  got  inter  hell  afore  her 
time,  she  hez  !  Thet  's  the  way  ye  Ve  got  ther 
baby;  she'd  ha'  died  afore  she  'd  parted  'th  her, 
ef  't  hed  n't  been  jest  's  't  is.  Yeow  'd  hev  pitied 
her  ef  ye  'd  seen  her  tryin'  to  sign  thet  paper, 
yeow  would.  'T  seemed  's  ef  she  could  n't  do  't. 
She  'd  put  ther  pen  daown,  'n'  then  she  'd  pick  't 


ZEPH.  233 

up ;  'n'  ther  paper 's  all  riz  up  in  blotches  whar 
she  cried  on  't  'n'  tried  ter  wipe  't  off  'th  her 
gown,  'n'  't  made  't  wuss.  Yeow  'd  hev  pitied 
her." 

"  No,  I  would  n't !  "  replied  Miss  Sophy.  "  I 
haven't  got  any  pity  for  a  woman  that  does 
what  she's  done." 

Gammer  drew  a  long  sigh.  It  was  too  dark 
for  her  to  see  Miss  Sophy's  face.  They  were 
standing  close  together  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 
whispering  like  conspirators. 

"  Yeow  'd  hev  ter,  ef  yer  seen  her,"  she  said ; 
"  not  but  what  she  's  reapin'  ez  she  sowed ;  I 
ain't  er  gainsayin'  thet ;  'n'  I  allaow  ther  Lawd  's 
gwine  ter  punish  her  wuss  yit  'fore  He  's  done 
'th  her." 

"How?"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  I  allaow  she  's  gwine  ter  break  all  ter  pieces. 
She  's  jest  ther  high-strung  kind  thet  doos; 
she  's  all  uv  er  tremble ;  narves  ez  awful  when 
they  gits  broke  up  thet  way.  She  sez  she 


234  ZEPH. 

knows  she  's  gwine  ter  die,  'n'  she  don't  care 
how  soon ;  'n'  I  say,  ther  sooner  ther  better,  tew; 
fur  thet  Nat,  he  won't  keer  fur  her  a  minnit 
when  she's  lost  her  looks  'n!  can't  cook,  —  not  er 
minnit ;  he  's  thet  kind.  Naow  thet  Zeph,  he  'd 
hev  —  " 

"Are  you  sure  she  will  give  you  the  child 
to-morrow?"  interrupted  Miss  Sophy.  She 
could  not  bear  any  reference  to  Zeph  in  this 
connection. 

"  Sure  's  I  am  't  I  'm  erlive,"  answered  Gam 
mer.  "  She  's  a  gwine  ter  bring  her  up  ter- 
morrer  arter  she  's  hed  her  supper,  'n'  she  '11  git 
her  ter  sleep  ter  my  house.  I  allaow  ter  yeow 
I  dread  ter  see  her  go  'n'  leave  her.  I  allaowed 
mebbe  she  'd  better  come  down  ter  ther  train ; 
but  —  " 

"  Oh,"  shrieked  Miss  Sophy,  "  don't  let  her ! 
She  'd  be  sure  to  take  it  all  back  at  the  last 
minute.  Don't  let  her  !  "  And  Miss  Sophy  actu 
ally  quivered  with  alarm. 


ZEPH.  235 

"  She  won't  come  thar,"  answered  Gammer. 
"  She  allaowed  she  could  n't.  She  allaowed 
she  'd  die  when  she  heered  the  whistle,  's  't  wuz. 
She  sez  it's  a  comfort  ter  her  I'm  goin'  part 
way.  Not  thet  she  's  got  enny  kind  er  distrust 
o'  yeow ;  but  ther  baby  knows  me,  'n'  she 's  a 
sckeery  little  thing.  I  allaow  yeow  '11  have 
trouble  'th  her  along  fur  a  spell." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  with  a  joy 
at  her  heart,  thinking  of  the  baby  nestled  in  its 
father's  arms.  "  I  'm  not  afraid." 

After  they  had  parted,  Gammer  turned  back, 
calling  cautiously,  "  Oh,  Miss  Burr,  I  clar  fur- 
got  !  She 's  powerful  'fraid  Zeph  '11  get  wind 
on  't  somehow  'n'  interfere.  I  allaowed  ter  her 
he  'd  ruther  yeow  hed  ther  baby  'n  enny  woman 
livin';  he  knowed  yer;  but  she  ain't  easy  'bout 
it.  Whar  is  Zeph  naow?  D'  yer  know?  We 
hain't  seed  him  for  a  week  back." 

"  He  went  into  the  country  on  business  for 
me,"  replied  Miss  Sophy. 


236  ZEPH. 


"'LI  he  be  back  'fore  yer  go?" 

"  I  expect  him  to-morrow ;  at  least,  that  was 
the  plan.  But  he  may  be  detained,"  said  the 
guilty  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Ef  he  doos  come,  ye  kin  tell  him  all  abaout 
it  yerself,"  replied  the  unsuspecting  Gammer, 
"  'n1  he  '11  be  thankful  ter  ther  Lawd,  I  allaow 
he  will." 

"  I  hope  he  will,"  ejaculated  Miss  Sophy,  fer 
vently.  And  as  she  ran  home  she  said  to  her 
self,  "  I  hope  to  the  Lord  that 's  the  last  manou- 
verin'  I  '11  have  to  do  till  my  dyin'  day.  It 's 
awful  wearin'.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  it's  worse 
'n  out-'n'-out  lyin' !  " 


ZEPH.  237 


VII. 

THE  simple  ceremony  which  had  made  Miss 
Sophy  and  Zeph  "  man  and  wife/'  as  the  cus 
tomary  phrase  strangely  words  it,  was  over. 
The  minister  and  his  wife,  who  had  known  Miss 
Sophy  ever  since  her  coming  into  the  town, 
respected  her,  and  trusted  her  as  a  stanch 
friend,  were  nevertheless  disquieted  by  this  last 
act  of  hers,  and  by  the  seemingly  clandestine 
way  in  which  she  had  insisted  upon  having  it 
performed. 

"  If  she  wa'n't  ashamed  of  it,  what  'd  she  want 
to  come  in  here  to  be  married,  just  like  a  ser 
vant-girl?  "  said  the  wife.  "  I  'd  never  believed 
it  o'  Sophy  Burr,  never !  "  And  the  minister  had 
replied  thoughtfully,  "  It  does  seem  queer;  but 


238  ZEPH. 

Miss  Sophy  's  always  got  some  good  reason  for 
what  she  does ;  that  poor  Riker  's  been  through 
such  dreadful  troubles  here,  I  don't  wonder  she 
does  n't  want  it  talked  about." 

"  She  's  just  thrown  herself  away,  that  's  what 
it  is,"  said  the  wife. 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  the  minister,  still  more 
thoughtfully.  "There  's  something  noble  in 
the  man's  look,  sad  as  't  is.  He  '11  come  up 
yet.  Sophy  Burr  's  no  fool." 

Meantime  the  two  thus  being  discussed  were 
standing  hand  in  hand  just  outside  the  parson 
age  gate.  Strange  words  to  be  spoken  by 
bride  and  bridegroom  within  five  minutes  of 
the  ceremony  which  had  made  them  one  were 
passing  between  them. 

"Zeph,"  said  Sophy,  the  instant  they  had 
passed  the  gate,  —  "  Zeph,  I  Ve  got  to  do  some 
thing  now  that  '11  try  you  considerable ;  but  you 
must  trust  me.  You  Ve  got  to  let  me  walk 
alone  down  to  the  depot  and  get  into  the  cars 


ZEPH.  239 

by  myself,  and  you  get  into  the  last  car  and 
stay  there  till  I  come  t'  ye.  'T  won't  be 
long  —  " 

"  Sophy !  "  interrupted  Zeph,  half  alarmed, 
half  angry,  "  what  notion  's  taken  ye  to  do 
that?  I  don't  think  it  's  decent,  Sophy.  What 
'11  folks  think?  It 's  dark ;  ye  need  n't  be  afraid 
o'  folks  seein'  us  's  we  go  along.  They  Ve  got 
to  know  it  to-morrow  morning;  they  might  as 
well  know  it  to-night." 

It  had  been  a  sore  point  to  Zeph  already,  the 
secrecy  in  which  their  plans  had  been  shrouded. 
Humble-minded  and  self-distrustful  as  he  was, 
he  was  also  sensitive  to  a  fault;  and  he  had 
spent  many  a  wretched  hour,  needlessly  tortur 
ing  himself  with  the  question  if  it  could  be  that 
the  faithful  and  devoted  Sophy  felt  shame  of 
having  linked  her  fortunes  with  his. 

"  If  you  'd  heard  me  through,"  retorted 
Sophy,  brusque  even  in  this  supreme  moment 
of  her  life,  "  you  'd  have  seen  that  it  was  n't  any 


240  ZEPH. 


notion,  nor  nothin'  like  a  notion.  It's  got  to 
be  done,  Zeph,  an'  you  Ve  got  to  trust  me.  I  Ve 
got  a  reason,  an'  if  you  knew  it  you  would  n't 
ask  me  to  do  different.  You  'd  help  me  all  you 
could,  an'  not  make  me  feel  bad  either.  Can't 
ye  trust  me  's  long  's  one  hour,  Zeph?  I  'd  do 
it  for  you.  Trust  me,  Zeph.  I  'm  your  wife 
now,  you  know  !  " 

"  Of  course  I  '11  trust  ye,  Sophy,"  replied 
Zeph,  half  appeased,  but  only  half.  "  It  was 
n't  no  question  o'  trustin',  an'  I  '11  do  jest  as 
you  want  me  to  ;  hain't  I  always  ?  But  I 
don't  see  why  ye  can't  tell  me  what  'tis, 
Sophy." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  she  cried  hysterically,  "  we 
have  n't  got  any  time  to  lose,  standin'  here ;  it 's 
'most  train-time  now.  I  can't  tell  you  !  an' 
when  you  know  what  'tis,  you  '11  see  I  could  n't 
tell  you.  You  '11  be  real  glad  I  did  n't,  Zeph. 
Oh,  do  trust  me  !  you  Ve  got  to  !  "  —  she  was 
crying  now,  — "  for  I  'm  goin'  right  off  this 


ZEPH.  241 

minute !  "  And  with  a  convulsive  clasp  of  her 
husband's  hand  she  turned  and  walked  away 
at  the  top  of  her  speed.  Tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks,  and  in  her  excitement  she  talked  aloud 
to  herself  as  she  ran :  "  If  she  should  take  it 
into  her  head  to  come  down  there  !  If  she  was 
to  see  Zeph,  she  might  suspect !  Perhaps  she 's 
backed  out  already!  Perhaps  Gammer  won't 
get  down  there  in  time  !  Supposin'  Zeph  did  n't 
take  notice  o'  my  tellin'  him  to  get  into  the  last 
car !  " 

The  fast-multiplying  terrors  so  unnerved  her, 
that  she  felt  for  the  first  time  in  her  sturdy  life 
faint,  —  which  but  added  another  alarm.  "  If  I 
should  be  fool  enough  to  go  an'  faint,  I  should 
give  up  !  "  she  said.  The  self-contempt  she  felt 
at  this  thought  proved  the  best  of  tonics,  and 
by  the  time  she  reached  the  railway  station  she 
was  almost  herself  again. 

It  wanted  only  ten  minutes  of  the  train-time, 
but  there  was  a  sleepy  expression  about  every- 
16 


242  ZEPH. 


body  and  everything  at  the  station  which  struck 
fear  to  her  heart.  "  Train 's  late,  I  '11  be  bound," 
she  thought. 

Yes,  the  train  was  late;  only  an  hour,  though. 
That  would  soon  pass.  In  a  few  moments  she 
saw  a  tall  figure,  much  wrapped  and  encum 
bered,  coming  over  a  low  hill  to  the  north  of  the 
station.  A  short  cross-cut  from  Gammer  Stein's 
house  would  run  that  way.  Her  breath  coming 
thick  and  fast,  Miss  Sophy  stepped  towards  the 
figure.  It  was  Gammer,  and  she  held  the  child 
in  her  arms.  At  the  sight,  Miss  Sophy  felt 
herself  again  in  danger  of  fainting.  "I  didn't 
know  I'd  got  it  in  me  to  be  so  upset,"  she 
thought,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  Gammer's 
shoulder,  and  tried  to  speak.  "  You  Ve  got 
her !  "  was  all  she  could  say. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Gammer,  "  she 's  asleep. 
I  jest  giv'  her  ther  leastest  bit  er  paregoric  ; 
't  won't  hurt  her  er  mite ;  'n'  I  put  er  li'le  bottle 
on 't  inter  ther  bundle,  already  sweetened.  Yer 


ZEPH.  243 


need  n't  be  er  mite  afeerd  ter  give  it  ter  her  ef 
she  hollers." 

"  The  train  's  late  !  "  said  Miss  Sophy,  clutch 
ing  Gammer's  arm.  "  We'll  have  to  walk  about. 
Keep  out  here  'n  the  shade." 

"  Ain't  thet  drefful,  naow,"  said  Gammer.  "  I 
allaowed  ter  git  hyar  jest  on  ther  minnit,  five 
minnits  erhead  er  time,  so  's  ter  git  right  on 
board.  It's  lucky  I  giv'  her  the  paregoric.  But 
she  's  powerful  heavy.  I  allaow  ter  yeow  my 
arm  's  plum  broke  !  " 

"Let  me  take  her,"  said  Miss  Sophy;  and  a 
warm  glow  kindled  in  her  breast  as  the  uncon 
scious  little  creature  was  laid  in  her  arms. 

Zeph  was  peering  anxiously  in  every  direc 
tion.  He  too  had  discovered  that  the  train  was 
late ;  but  that  did  not  console  him  for  his  wife's 
non-appearance,  since  she  could  not  have  known 
that  fact,  and  ought  long  before  this  to  have 
been  on  the  platform.  Dire  anxiety  consumed 
him.  Where  was  she?  What  did  it  mean?  He 


244  ZEPH. 

saw  the  two  dimly  outlined  figures  pacing  up 
and  down  in  the  distance ;  but  in  contrast  with 
Gammer's  great  height,  Sophy's  figure  looked 
so  short,  he  did  not  dream  of  its  being  hers ; 
and  besides,  that  figure  was  carrying  a  child. 
He  did  not  give  it  a  second  look. 

The  hour  had  nearly  passed.  The  sleepy, 
waiting  passengers  outside  on  the  benches  and 
in  the  waiting-room  were  beginning  to  bestir 
themselves ;  trucks  were  being  wheeled,  luggage 
moved,  carriages  driving  up.  Walking  boldly 
forward  now,  Zeph  scrutinized  all.  No  Sophy 
to  be  seen!  Just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  away,  with  the  resolve  that  come  what 
might  he  would  not  get  into  the  train  till  he 
had  seen  her,  his  eye  was  arrested  by  a  swift- 
running  figure,  —  a  woman,  crossing  the  track 
a  few  rods  from  the  station  and  turning  towards 
it.  A  signal-lantern,  hung  high  on  a  derrick, 
flashed  its  light  full  upon  her  as  she  passed.  It 
was  Rushy,  her  face  wild,  her  hair  dishevelled. 


ZEPH.  245 


"  My  God  !  "  gasped  Zeph.  "  That  's  what 
Sophy  was  afraid  of!  That 's  Rushy,  and  she  's 
drunk  !  I  '11  hide,  'n'  do  jest  Js  Sophy  told  me 
to.  She 's  got  some  plan  o'  gettin'  aboard  her 
self;  she  had  a  reason,  sure  enough !  But  she 
might  ha  told  me  !  " 

Beyond  the  track,  on  the  side  farthest  from 
the  station,  was  a  gulch  thick  grown  with  weeds 
and  young  cottonwood  trees.  Into  this  Zeph 
leaped,  and  stood  waiting  for  the  train ;  as  soon 
as  it  pulled  in  he  sprang  to  the  platform  of 
the  rear  car,  and  entering  it,  sank  into  a  seat. 
Whatever  came  now,  he  at  least  had  fulfilled 
to  the  letter  his  wife's  request.  But  the  suspense 
was  beyond  his  endurance. 

"  It  'd  kill  Sophy  if  she  was  to  make  a  row 
'n'  insult  her,"  he  said,  "  'n'  me  not  there  to 
stand  by  her !"  And  going  out  on  the  platform, 
he  leaned  out,  straining  his  eyes  forward  along 
the  train,  just  in  time  to  see  Sophy  standing 
back  from  the  steps  of  the  forward  car  and 


246  ZEPH. 

assisting  an  elderly  woman  burdened  with  a 
child  in  her  arms  to  get  in  before  her. 

"Just  like  Sophy,"  he  thought,  "always 
helpin'  somebody!  Oh,  why  don't  she  jump 
in  quick?  Where  's  Rushy?  She  was  a  lookin' 
to  see  me,  I  expect,  an'  so  she  's  missed  her !  " 

It  had  been  but  five  minutes,  —  only  an  insig 
nificant  way-station  stop ;  but  it  had  settled  the 
life-destiny  of  more  than  one  human  being. 

The  unfortunate  Rushy  was  coming  to  the 
station  on  a  very  different  errand  from  that 
which  Zeph  had  suspected.  In  fact,  she  did  not 
reach  the  station  at  all.  If  he  had  watched  for 
a  moment  longer  he  would  have  seen  her  pause, 
look  attentively  at  the  crowd  gathered  there, 
and  then,  retreating  into  the  darkness,  seat  her 
self  on  the  ground  at  the  base  of  a  telegraph- 
pole,  against  which  she  leaned  in  an  attitude  of 
despair. 

Her  house  was  not  far  distant  from  the  rail 
way  station,  and  as  the  time  approached  for  the 


ZEPH.  247 


train  to  pass,  the  poor  creature  had  pressed  her 
face  against  the  window,  listening  for  the  whistle 
and  looking  for  the  light.  Becoming  alarmed 
at  length  by  the  long  delay,  she  had  run  bare 
headed  to  the  station  to  find  what  it  meant. 
Seeing  the  waiting  crowd,  she  had  understood 
at  once,  and  had  thrown  herself  on  the  ground, 
resolved  not  to  leave  the  place  till  the  train  had 
come  and  gone.  No  thought  of  withdrawing 
from  her  agreement  or  even  of  looking  again 
on  the  face  of  her  child  had  been  in  her  mind. 
On  the  contrary,  her  resolve  had  strengthened 
hourly  since  her  interview  with  Miss  Sophy; 
but  the  strengthening  of  her  resolve  did  not 
diminish  the  intensity  of  her  grief. 

"  It  '11  kill  me,  I  know  't  will,"  was  the  con 
stant  refrain  in  her  thoughts ;  always  following 
it,  however,  "  but  I  '11  never  forgive  myself  if  I 
don't  do  it.  I  darst  n't  not  do  't !  " 

Sobbing  aloud  in  the  safe  shelter  of  the  dark 
ness,  she  watched  each  movement  in  the  con- 


248  ZEPH. 


fusion  at  the  train,  vainly  trying  to  distinguish 
the  form  of  Miss  Sophy  or  of  Gammer.  The 
moments  which  seemed  so  long  to  all  the  other 
actors  in  the  drama  seemed  to  her  like  light 
ning  seconds. 

"  Oh,  they  're  goin' !  "  she  cried,  as  the  train 
began  to  move.  "  Oh,  God,  she  's  gone ! 
Baby ! "  and  she  fell  back  senseless  on  the 
earth. 

At  that  moment  Zeph  was  saying  to  himself, 
"  Thank  God,  we  're  safe  off!  "  and  Miss  Sophy, 
devoutly,  "  Thank  God,  she  did  n't  come  down  !  " 
and  Gammer,  aloud,  taking  Miss  Sophy's  hand 
in  hers,  "What  ails  yer?  Yer  tremblin'  like  a 
leaf!  " 

"  I  Ve  got  something  to  tell  you,  Gammer," 
replied  Miss  Sophy,  in  a  whisper;  and  she  told 
her  then,  at  last,  the  truth. 

It  was  well  that  the  necessity  of  carrying  on 
their  conversation  in  a  cautious  whisper  re 
strained  Gammer  from  the  full  expression  of 


ZEPH.  249 

her  emotions;  but  the  repression  of  them  was 
almost  beyond  her  power.  Disjointed  and  in 
credulous  ejaculations  were  at  first  all  which 
could  take  shape  in  her  thought;  then  followed 
an  avalanche  of  questions,  some  of  them  hard 
to  answer ;  but  soon  all  else  was  swallowed  up 
in  a  heartfelt  sympathy  and  gladness  which 
were  comforting  to  Miss  Sophy's  heart. 

"  You  don't  think  't  was  wrong,  then,  not  to 
let  her  know  who  she  was  givin'  her  to,  do 
you?"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Nerry  bit  of  it !  "  replied  Gammer.  "'Twa'n't 
no  use  runnin'  ther  resk  on  't.  I  donno  haow 
she  'd  hev  tuk  it.  Mebbe  she  'd  hev  been 
willin'er,  'n'  mebbe  not  ser  willin'.  Thar  ain't 
no  countin'  on  folks;  yer  can't  never  tell.  I 
sh'd  allaow  she  'd  been  willin'er ;  but  then  agin 
she  might  er  tuk  a  jealous  fit  'n'  thar  would  n't 
hev  been  any  doin'  nothin'.  'T  's  best  's  't  is. 
Ye  Ve  managed  wonderful,  I  allaow  yeow  hev ; 
'n'  naow  ther  sooner  yer  let  thet  pore  Zeph 


250  ZEPH. 


know  she  's  hyar  ther  better.  I  allaow  he  's 
'most  crazy,  settin'  thar  waitin' !  " 

"Oh,"  faltered  Miss  Sophy,  "I  didn't  mean 
to  tell  him  till  we  got  out  of  the  train !  I  don't 
want  to  have  any  kind  o'  fuss  in  the  cars." 

"He  won't  make  no  fuss,"  replied  Gammer. 
"  He  ain't  thet 


HERE  the  story  of  Zeph  comes  to  an  abrupt 
ending.  Conceived  and  begun  by  Mrs.  Jackson 
in  Los  Angeles  during  the  winter  of  1884-1885, 
it  was  put  by  to  be  finished  on  her  arrival  home 
in  Colorado  Springs,  —  a  home  she  was  destined 
never  to  reach.  In  her  last  hours  she  sent 
the  manuscript  to  her  publisher  with  this  mes 
sage  :  — 

I  am  very  sorry  I  cannot  finish  "Zeph."  Perhaps 
it  is  not  worth  publishing  in  its  unfinished  state,  as  the 
chief  lesson  for  which  I  wrote  it  was  to  be  forcibly  told 
at  the  end.  You  must  be  judge  about  this.  I  suppose 
there  will  be  some  interest  in  it  as  the  last  thing  I 


ZEPH.  251 

wrote.  I  will  make  a  short  outline  of  the  plot  of  the 
close  of  the  story.  .  .  .  Good-by.  Many  thanks  for 
all  your  long  good-will  and  kindness.  I  shall  look  in 
on  your  new  rooms  some  day,  be  sure  —  but  you  won't 

see  me.    Good-by. 

Affectionately  forever, 

H.  J. 
AUGUST  7. 

On  a  separate  sheet  was  the  "  Outline." 


THE   CLOSE   OF   "ZEPH." 

THEY  were  to  settle  down  on  a  ranch  in  one 
of  the  beautiful  canons  in  South  California,  open 
ing  out  seaward,  yet  not  so  near  the  water  as  to 
be  too  cold  for  fruits.  I  had  the  precise  spot  in 
my  memory, —  an  ideal  nook,  apricots  and  vine 
yards,  cherry-trees  in  bloom  there  in  March, 
tomatoes  ripe  on  the  hillsides  in  January;  a 
glimmer  of  sea  to  be  seen  from  the  mouth  of 
the  canon  fourteen  miles  away,  —  endless  charm 
to  Miss  Sophy,  half-sad  spell  to  Zeph.  At  the 
end  of  two  years,  one  night  as  she  is  watching 


25-2  ZEPH. 

the  sunset  light  on  the  water  from  one  of  the 
hills  at  the  mouth  of  their  canon,  she  looks  down 
and  sees  Zeph  coming  up  the  road  with  his  arm 
around  a  boy's  waist.  It  is  Zephie.  His  mother 
is  dead,  —  had  saved  enough  money  for  him  to 
come  to  South  California  and  join  his  father. 
She  had  learned  of  the  marriage,  and  as  soon 
as  Gammer  returned  there  was  a  stormy  scene ; 
but  she  soon  grew  reconciled,  and  finally  glad. 
As  Gammer  had  predicted,  she  never  recovered 
her  strength,  but  pined  away  in  a  mysterious 
nervous  break-down.  Zephie's  story  is  pathetic. 
The  stepfather  was  never  "  bad "  to  her,  but 
never  "real  good;  "  the  boy  was  her  only  com 
fort.  Whenever  she  could  save  a  dollar,  she  sent 
it  by  Zephie  to  Gammer  to  keep,  and  made  Gam 
mer  promise  to  see  him  safe  started  for  Califor 
nia.  A  letter  from  Gammer  sent  by  Zephie  told 
the  details  of  the  last  hours,  when  the  poor 
woman  said  she  died  easier,  thinking  how  for 
giving  Zeph  had  been  to  her ;  that  she  thought 


ZEPH. 


if  a  man  could  forgive  her  like  that,  perhaps 
Christ  would  forgive  her  too  !  "  She  allaowed," 
said  Gammer,  "  thet  she  could  n't  never  hev  got 
no  faith  to  die  trustin',  ef  it  hed  n't  ben  fur  ther 
way  Zeph  'd  allers  kep'  on  er  furgivin'  her,  time 
an'  agen ;  'n'  she  jest  trusted  God  'd  be  ez  good 
ter  her  ez  Zeph  wuz!" 

"  Now,"  said  Miss  Sophy  in  her  heart,  "  at 
last,  Zeph  '11  have  real  peace  and  comfort.  He  's 
never  felt  settled  in  his  mind  yet,  and  he  never 
would  's  long  's  he  had  n't  got  the  boy;  'n'  I 
don't  know  's  he  would  's  long  's  she  was  above 
ground !  But  there  won't  be  a  happier  man  in 
all  California  than  he  '11  be  now  !  "  And  a  flush 
born  of  a  secret  known  only  to  Miss  Sophy's 
own  heart  was  red  on  her  cheek  as  she  went  to 
the  door  and  called  her  husband  and  his  boy  in 
to  supper. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

RAMONA:   A  STORY. 

BY  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.). 
I2mo.     Cloth.     Price  $1.50. 


The  Atlantic  Monthly  says  of  the  author  that  she  is  "a  Murillo 
in  literature,"  and  that  the  story  "  is  one  of  the  most  artistic 
creations  of  American  literature."  Says  a  lady:  "Tome  it  is  the 
most  distinctive  piece  of  work  we  have  had  in  this  country  since 
'  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'  and  its  exquisite  fiuish  of  style  is  beyond  that 
classic."  "The  book  is  truly  an  American  novel,"  says  the  Boston 
Advertiser.  "  Ramona  is  one  of  the  most  charming  creations  of 
modern  fiction,"  says  Charles  D.  Warner.  "The  romance  of  the 
story  is  irresistibly  fascinating,"  says  The  Independent. 

"  The  best  novel  written  by  a  woman  since  George  Eliot  died,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  is  Mrs.  Jackson's  '  Ramona.'  What  action  is  there  ! 
What  motion  !  How  entrainant  it  is  !  It  carries  us  along  as  if 
mounted  on  a  swift  horse's  back,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  it  is 
only  when  we  return  for  a  second  reading  that  we  can  appreciate 
the  fine  handling  of  the  characters,  and  especially  the  Spanish 
mother,  drawn  with  a  stroke  as  keen  and  firm  as  that  which 
portrayed  George  Eliot's  '  Dorothea.'  "  —  T.  W.  Higginson,  in 
Harper's  Bazar. 

Unsolicited  tribute  of  a  stranger,  a  lady  in  Wisconsin  :  — 

"  I  beg  leave  to  thank  you  with  an  intense  heartiness  for  your 
public  espousal  of  the  cause  of  the  Indian.  In  your  'Century  of 
Dishonor'  you  showed  to  the  country  its  own  disgrace.  In 
'Ramona  'you  have  dealt  most  tenderly  with  the  Indians  as  men 
and  women.  You  have  shown  that  their  stoicism  is  not  indiffer 
ence,  that  their  squalor  is  not  always  of  their  own  choosing.  You 
have  shown  the  tender  grandeur  of  their  love,  the  endurance  of 
their  constancy.  While,  by  '  Ramona,'  you  have  made  your  name 
immortal,  you  have  done  something  which  is  far  greater.  You  are 
but  one:  they  are  many.  You  have  helped  those  who  cannot  help 
themselves.  As  a  novel,  'Ramona'  must  stand  beside  'Romola,' 
both  as  regards  literary  excellence  and  the  portrayal  of  life's  deepest, 
most  vital,  most  solemn  interests.  I  think  nothing  in  literature 
since  Goldsmith's  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield  '  equals  your  description  of 
the  flight  of  Ramona  and  Alessandro.  Such  delicate  pathos  and 

' 


tender  joy,  such  pure  conception  of  life's  realities,  and  such  loftiness 
of  self-abnegating 
is  with  '  Ramona 


of  self-abnegating  love  !     How  much  richer  and  happier  the  world 
na  '  in  it  !  " 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.    Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  publishers, 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  BOSTON, 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 
A    KEY    TO   "  RAMONA." 

A  CENTURY  OF  DISHONOR. 

A  Sketch  of  the  United  States  Government's  Dealings 
with  some  of  the  Indian  Tribes. 

By   HELEN  JACKSON   (H.  H.), 

AUTHOR  OF  "RAMONA,"  "VERSES,"  "BITS  OF  TRAVEL,"  ETC. 
A  New  Edition.     I2mo.     pp.  514.     Cloth.     $1.50. 

"The  report  made  by  Mrs.  Jackson  and  Mr.  Kinney  is  grave,  concise,  and 
deeply  interesting.  It  is  added  to  the  appendix  of  this  new  edition  of  her  book. 
In  this  California  journey,  Mrs.  Jackson  found  the  materials  for  '  Ramona,'  the 
Indian  novel,  which  was  the  last  important  work  of  her  life,  and  in  which  nearly 
all  the  incidents  are  taken  from  life.  In  the  report  of  the  Mission  Indians  will 
be  found  the  story  of  the  Temecula  removal  and  the  tragedy  of  Alessandro's  death 
as  they  appear  in  '  Ramona.'  "  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  number  of  striking  cases  of  breach  of  faith,  heartless  banishment  from 
homes  confirmed  to  the  Indians  by  solemn  treaties,  and  wars  wantonly  provoked 
in  order  to  make  an  excuse  for  dispossessing  them  of  their  lands,  are  grouped 
together,  making  a  panorama  of  outrage  and  oppression  which  will  arouse  the 
humanitarian  instincts  of  the  nation  to  the  point  of  demanding  that  justice  shall 
be  done  toward  our  savage  wards.  .  .  .  '  H.  H.'  succeeds  in  holding  up  to  the 
public  eye  a  series  of  startling  pictures  of  Indian  wrongs,  drawn  from  a  century 
of  American  history." — New  York  Tribune. 


Mrs.  Jackson's  Letter  of  Gratitude  to  the  President. 

The  following  letter  from  Mrs.  Jackson  to  the  President  was 
written  by  her  four  days  before  her  death,  Aug.  12,  1885  :  — 
To  GROVER  CLEVELAND,  President  of  the  United  States : 

Dear  Sir,  —  From  my  death-bed  I  send  you  a  message  of  heartfelt  thanks  for 
what  you  have  already  done  for  the  Indians.  I  ask  you  to  read  my  "  Century  of 
Dishonor."  I  am  dying  happier  for  the  belief  I  have  that  it  is  your  hand  that  is 
destined  to  strike  the  first  steady  blow  toward  lifting  this  burden  of  infamy  from 
our  country,  and  righting  the  wrongs  of  the  Indian  race. 

With  respect  and  gratitude, 

HELEN  JACKSON. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers.  Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
price,  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    BOSTON. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  b^>k  J*  due  on  the  Iast  date  stamped  below 
o,  on  .he  da,e         hich  -.wed.  Re^ab  onT= 


MARl473-ttPMi9 


FEB2"lT98t' 

RE&CIR.    JAN  2  8  '81 


• 


4ft  | 


LD21A-40m-3,'72 
<'Qll73slO)476-A-32 


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